On the fence posts and shingles primed,
on the spinning, chiming pointed tips of icicles.

There they are clinging to her apron–
she’s gone outside to fetch more wood as the fire awaits its own crackle and hiss:

these are the frozen stars of white reposed.

She is baking and humming when we leave the kitchen
and high-step our legs to sift through the snow–

the call from school coming hours ago.

Until that fine red line begins to form on our shins where the boots rub
(certainly you know that line of which I speak),

we will float through the feathery, sallow sand
with the neighbor-boy who hiked a mile up the hill with his eyelashes stuck together
and his face chapped and numb with happy cold.

Spirits of the dead fly and sink repeatedly
when we build the jump and tunnel for our sleds,
adrenalin and joy stronger than hunger.

But our lunch deferred awaits us in the kitchen,
warmed by things we will begin to understand only later;

hot chocolate and tomato soup,
grilled cheese thawing our cheeks.

Then banana bread of course,
before we send the neighbor-boy back down the hill
where a pair of barn owls will split the air silently above his head
as he makes his way home by the light of the moon.

Sometimes we wandered for miles

during that time of year

when the grizzlies sauntered from hibernation

sleepily impatient with hunger

and too close to where we collected things;

their fetid slyness heavy and unseen behind the waking evergreens of spring.

Once, I dropped an armful of dead branches

upon hearing the winter-induced intoxication of

the Mountain Queen herself.

She shuffled and heaved the unsteadiness of her trunk forward

as an eager cub followed inoffensively in her footprints.

My brother and I left our bodies behind

we ran so hard.

And then other times,

the woods were silent for years

when the deer were mostly gone and quietly spaced.

Even the elegance of an irregular buck tiptoeing on snow-dampened leaves

did nothing to disturb the stillness.

We were often found crouched by the rotten wood of the old corral

investigating petrified prints of worms and pocket-sized shells

when our sister came to find us.

My sister was always beautiful when she came to find us;

the flush of her cheeks and the tangled urgency in the red weaves of her hair

brought human life into the world we were meant to belong.

There is a picture I have

of she and I during hunting season

slinking through sage on our bellies

breathing in the cold November air

and exhaling smoke-like circles that span the distance between us.

Her gloves have the tops cut off

and the tips of her fingers show purple already

even though we have just begun.

Behind us,

the wind is carrying in a mass of snow-filled clouds;

the first flurries dainty and transient on the signal-orange of our jackets.

We begin to scale the callous, lifeless rocks

that cover the hummocks between hunter and hunted;

cresting to see the huffing herd upwind and unaware of our presence.

My nervousness is obvious, I know.

She watches me from under the tugged edge of her knit cap.

Breathe,                                                                                                                                

she reminds me.

You’ve got time,                                                                                                                                            

she reminds me                                                                                                                                               

placing her stiffened fingers on my back.

Take your time.

I watch the elk lift their noses to the incoming storm—

their regality unmatched

and my desire to watch them living

stronger than my desire to be close to one in death.

I can’t   with a whisper

loud enough to startle them all                                                                                                  

and start their domino flee

away from my mother and me.

I just can’t.

Aren’t they beautiful                                                                                                                                                        

she asks, watching them go                                      

and turning the safety on.

At first the dog was jumping at the door like a jackrabbit;

from a distance it was a deer

until the children ran circles around each other inside,

finding one pair of camouflaged-pattern binoculars—

quickly focused and pointed directly to the right of the red-faced tree

but in the corn field, two o’clock.

And now it is a coyote

so we call the cats inside and hold the dog back by his collar.

The children line up at the head of the family room window one two three

little bottoms stilled by the prospect of anything other than corn and tractors

in the massive stretch of land

usually bleak, save the shadows of the clouds

and the tarn of reflection for setting suns.

Soon we lose sight of the wild, wire-haired dog

but notice the slackened cars on the road—

almost stopped absolutely, headlights exploding across the yellow lines

in observance of the little things that stir the blood and make good dreams

out here in the country.

Into the valley

the cold creeps,

creeps through

as she assembles the heavy thickness of her dark,

darkest clouds

rolling down,

down from the mountains

into the red and the yellow and the orange trees,

into the beds of the fellows and their faithless dreams.

Say your prayers tonight young men,

she will snake her way over and in-between your sheets;

she will turn on you in seconds

and make it so there is no daylight left–

there is nothing more you can do but shiver and hush

as she ices the windows and lays a solid sheet of callous

across the grass and your deceit.

When dogs decide to leave

their territory on this side of the fence,

there are no affairs to get in order

no jewelry to dole out

or words from the countless people

who would have wanted to hold their paws by the bed.

It turns out,

they’ve been giving the estate away for years.

 

There is a quiet room

where the vet tech strokes their distended tummies after hours

and each breath our beloved guardians take,

brings with it the anticipation of undiscovered places

as if they were re-launching from puppyhood.

 

There is beeping

and a phone call

and a decision to make

and the hope that more money

more tests, more sleep

will give them one more day

one more week,

one more month of restful peace

in that special bed by the fireplace

surrounded by soothing voices and permissive parenting .

 

And for a long time after the decision wasn’t yours,

you miss them jumping on the bed or the couch;

you wish they would still follow you around the house

and nudge their wet noses into the palm of your hand.

 

Until that day comes

when you are brave enough to go for a jog without them,

down that old street lined with trees that was yours together;

 

only to see them there—

all of them

standing at the fence under the trees, waiting:

 

chasing their tails and biting at your heels

asking to race you to the end of the block and back,

leash-ends in their mouth, smiling;

 

a dutiful group of bouncing shadows

that will never just sometimes greet you at the fence.

 

 

 

If you sleep with the windows open you will hear:

the barn owl and his reticent wings if you’re lucky;

the cats

on top of the roof,

shrieking when the grey one

and the black one and white one come around,

hissing and clawing to defend the fortress;

the cats,

mewing hungrily at the door when the screeching is done;

the raccoons,

laughing as the scuttling mice

use the distraction to change direction;

the coyotes,

happy in the vast field to the west

before the place where the city lights flicker

fervent with the mounting weather;

the rabbits,

withdrawing their noses single file

to burrow deep;

the wind chimes,

clanging and clapping in the new wind

under the moved branches where they hang;

the steam,

rising from the ground in the morning

as the light tries to pull through the clouds;

the rain,

falling into dreams that entertain,

disappearing arrows into the ground;

the farmer,

stretching his tired, aged back early—

shaking hands with the guy from the city,

clipboard and contract in-hand…

 

 

 

 

There is a star of light

in the circle where the treetops join,

we have alternated between you riding your bike

and me pushing you.

We could probably trade places

you are so big now–

but I want to find you the perfect leaf

while I pretend you will not soon be four.

Never has a day passed like this for us;

all of the ants

and grasshoppers;

all of the caterpillars

have timed their crossing of the path just right,

and from the few branches that have already turned

the perfect, yellow, heart-shaped leaf clings to my vision from one of them

as if your name were painted in the pink veins of its buttery form.

You wave the long stem just above the jogging stroller’s parasol

turning it for the pulsing steppe to see

as if it were the emblem of our interim stay.

karenhansonpercy