This morning
I can see through the thick fog of a premature spring
an extra set of legs;
wobbly and dark across the creeping haze.
Sometime within the chilled hours of an unseen dawn
the heavy cow must have labored silently
with her back turned against the off-putting wind.
And there, she bowed her head with the lowered calf
and the rising steam
only to lift it again when the fog cleared and the calf was standing
and the cars on the county road whizzed by.
Today I stood underneath the belly of a goose,
its feathers formed the perfect intersection of down
from each side of a soft, plump paunch.
Then past my arched neck and over the road,
the falter of a bent wing threw the bird off balance
and I caught my breath for the goose and for the car below.
But then its flight amended towards the greater air,
and my fingers unfastened from a tight, frozen clutch
wondering at palms that know how to merge
sometimes without cognitive consent.
And when we have tilted sideways on uncorrected wing—
when we are bent in half by the unexplained
and move quickly towards the asphalt,
or watch the perfect spine of others try and correct their flight,
somehow the faces of our furrowed hands know to come together
and mouth the words that have always been there
for us, and from the vastness of sky
Remember how we left the kitchen warm
to high-step through the falling snow;
the call from school coming hours ago.
How we knew that fine red line would form on our shins where the boots rubbed,
but still we floated through that feathery, sallow sand
to meet the neighbor-boy who hiked a mile up the hill
with his eyelashes stuck together
and his joyous face chapped and numb with exultant cold.
Spirits of the dead soared and sunk repeatedly
when we built the network of tunneled snow
from which to hide and then fly through the air on our sleds;
adrenalin and joy stronger than hunger.
Yet a lunch deferred awaited us in the kitchen,
like childhood revisits the adult;
hot chocolate and tomato soup lingered on the table for discovery,
grilled cheese expecting to thaw our mouths.
Then banana bread of course,
before we were obliged to send the neighbor-boy back down the hill
ahead of the early darkness.
Where he would see in the fading light
a pair of barn owls splitting the air silently above his head
and those frozen stars of white
would cling to our names forever.
I’d forgotten they were there
a world of them flitting through air
with jade and sapphire wings at their side
unshaken when two worlds collide.
Unnoticed when the tangled roots are spry,
their nests don’t seem quite so high
for a coyote or even a fox to spare
yet still I’ve found, they’re always there.
And when those twisted vines do drop their spring,
when there’s little green on which to cling
their brilliant feathers spread and swing
and bluebirds in the alder sing.
Beautiful or strong
or filled with shadows long;
fragrant or wild,
young like a child;
aged or wise
all truth and no lies.
She just is.
The prairie.
Sometimes
when life runs through you
with the pace of a heavy wind,
the goldenrod and cattails ignite for just long enough
and a horse stands in front of you unmoving beneath the cottonwood tree,
a young steer at her feet
kicking at her fetlocks
and staring into the dying sun,
reminding you to stop and see.
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
then crest the rising hill 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
and places her stiffened fingers on my back.
Take your time.
I watch the elk lift their noses to the incoming storm—
their regality unmatched.
I can’t
With a whisper loud enough to startle them all
I just can’t.
Aren’t they beautiful
she asks, watching them go
and turning the safety on.
Show me how you lift the sky
carrying your red;
show me how you wake and swell
and climb
into the billows where we meet.
Show me your crimson veins
over the rooftops and trees and the mountains deferred,
and I will show you how they stand in the cherry-dipped corners of their yards,
reaching high to touch.
See how they hold their children shoulder-high, and smile;
listen to their dogs bark and their horses whinny.
See how some carry the weight of the day in their eyes,
holding
holding on—
as they focus and stare
and grow lighter as you soar.
Show me your perfect arch into the shadows,
and I will stand in the corner of the upstairs patio
and get my picture taken with you over my shoulder
while I’m laughing,
because that’s something we’ve all done.
At first it was the ocean I loved
then the mountains then the ocean and the mountains again
but now I see it will always be the prairie.
If I could carve out a little hut camouflaged in a verdant bluff I would
spend my days turning circles in the long, gilded grass with the sun watching
the clouds narrate each breath I would
let the wind decide when it’s time to retreat before the prairie toads and pointed
frogs hop about under the brilliant reflection of the moon whispering the word
eternal
let the snakes unbothered, carve out their ssssssssses of gold and the
jackrabbits leap for joy over their communal unanimity I would
let the coyotes yip yip yip me into a bottomless slumber of cool air and simple
dreams
where bison rise to a bluff under the darkened veil of an afternoon storm and
mustang wildly toss their obdurate heads bucking and cantering
into this earthy outer-space more cosmic and unscathed than what people sail
or climb.
