On a slow noon Saturday, the pioneers remain
buried. A dented, turquoise Windstar
crawls up the
half-circle
needle and gravel driveway.
The Witnesses
are recruiting, but first we’ll
talk
hunting, the upward and onward
of trekking Mogollon trails, of
blinds
and shallow
hiding, masking our scents.
Ruefully, we’ll speak of the fire-ravaged
bark-beetle pine forest, which
brings us back
to why he’s here:
to dispel
my notions of Hell, to speak
of lions and lambs sitting
at evening tea,
reminiscing
about the old days of chase. In this
new earth the rock lizards will
cradle
quail eggs, nod
gently and whisper
the over and under of reclaiming the bounty
of lost tails in a one-off light.
No comments:
Post a Comment