The mysteries, puzzled
pieces scattered, most missing
and decomposed by the moment
linger, shelved in the back room
for future reference
awaiting adhesive connections
that seldom take shape.
The ranch and its inhabitants,
the wild and tame, the unknowing
hands of man and the malicious,
the well-meaning touch
that turns terribly tragic--all
scattered, stacked one upon the other,
clues that only true detectives
note in the dusty swirl of ambiguity
left to settle with experience--
an illusive sense beyond the tangible
that this old ground evokes.
* * * *
Inspired by an article in the latest issue of Will Hearst's
Alta Magazine:
https://altaonline.com/private-investigators-san-francisco-phil-bronstein/
What an unusual thing to find, John, but you made much out of it with your poem. I once posted a photo of a dead and partly eaten deer on my blog as part of what happens in nature and some people were a bit “grossed out” as we used to say. Didn’t take long and I couldn’t even find where the deer had been, but the coyotes, various other predators, and some birds were quite content, I’m sure.
Yes, Janet, there are some dark secrets most people want to know. The photo was taken in October 2014 during the 2nd year of our drought, feathers scattered over the bare ground. With groceries short, I figured that a Golden Eagle hit the slow flying heron from above. In years since we’ve found piles of white Great Egret feathers. I suspect this dead heron head turned some people off, but I thought it fit the poem. Thanks for your comment.
drycrikjournal 
What an unusual thing to find, John, but you made much out of it with your poem. I once posted a photo of a dead and partly eaten deer on my blog as part of what happens in nature and some people were a bit “grossed out” as we used to say. Didn’t take long and I couldn’t even find where the deer had been, but the coyotes, various other predators, and some birds were quite content, I’m sure.
janet
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Yes, Janet, there are some dark secrets most people want to know. The photo was taken in October 2014 during the 2nd year of our drought, feathers scattered over the bare ground. With groceries short, I figured that a Golden Eagle hit the slow flying heron from above. In years since we’ve found piles of white Great Egret feathers. I suspect this dead heron head turned some people off, but I thought it fit the poem. Thanks for your comment.
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It has it’s own sort of beauty.
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