Exploring with a gun alone, oak trees
spoke to me—Red Tails swooped
to the wounded and buzzards trailed
at a safe distance when I was ten—
half-wild, I thought, circumambulating
the endless draws and canyons that called
for company and conversation—shooting
squirrels and hunting rattlesnakes in rock piles.
They would have jailed my folks today.
The first butterfly I saw batted by a bobcat
played better than Walt Disney, better than
the Space Race, Cold War or Sputnik.
drycrikjournal 