Vol 12, Num 7 :: 2013.03.29 — 2013.04.11
Though I have seen them before,
I walk the trails with different eyes, absorbent as a child’s.
Arriving at the clearing, I stand and blink
at the stakes that run
In parallel lines in the ground:
Foreign objects, strangely superimposed
Upon the field before me.
Here. We will pound these stakes here.
This is where the black gold will flow.
Above, a squirrel chirrups his agitation.
A hare silently gathers his feet beneath his down-soft belly.
A doe swings her head up, ears forward.
A shuffling turkey restlessly beats her wings.
They, too, regard these unwelcome things
With wide, suspicious eyes and a wary sniff,
Unsettled by the flapping tags and inky scrawls.
As I scramble to the hilltop, following the lines,
They lead to the next hilltop, and to the next, and to the next.
Before and behind, they march on.
The wind stings my eyes and the field blurs.
There are more trails to traverse before these lines
Deepen into scars.
For now, I will seek out a golden south window,
Like a drowsy cat,
And think on that brilliant pair of cardinals,
Swooping, dipping, bobbing,
Red flashes against mud-brown.
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