at Kurt's

sat out on the porch
and watched, more listened to rain
and dark highway over yonder.


plastic chairs on concrete
under a roof of dark rain
placated by outdoor sound.


sat out on the porch and watched
more listened to rain and dark
highway over yonder.

looking up

there are too many stars
to think about.
all there is to do is select a few
for concentration.  stars
strung together make a shape.

moon's not up yet.
it is hard to see anything
but the stars and the black shapes 
of trees against the sky.

there's a hunter.
yonder's a bear
being cold and clear.

the trash pile

in the woods, downhill from the house,
just above the trash pile
there is a series of collapsed pens or cages.
a few warped mossy boards, greyed fenceposts
& several kinds of wire fencing:
something that looks like chickenwire
with much larger hexagonal holes,
another smaller chickenwire,
another kind of woven wire with proud warped rectangles
& some barbed wire that looks like it was thrown in 
to keep it from feeling lonely.

this was a house for birds, turkeys
when there were no wild turkeys in these parts.
grampa raised and released them.
one of his first batches was a dozen turkeys and one pheasant
the dogs got ahold of 
that fell in for fowl company.

the dozen with pheasant surprise as mascot
were seen all round the countryside:
over on the other side of the T road,
out in Danby, down in the Plattin Gap.
a pheasant in the presence of turkeys
is remarkable and easily identified.

given time turkeys flourished.
now the numbers are such
there can even be hunting.
still grampa throws wheat in the woods
for hungry turkeys and plants feed plots.

grampa's raised clutches of eggs found mowing hay.
when you uncover a nest like that 
the hen isnt coming back.
maybe she'll go off and make another nest.
so home with those eggs in his hat
covered with his handkerchief and into the incubator.

there's a tree at one end of this dilapidated pen.
it curves and points uphill toward the house.
built onto the tree is the frame
of what once stood for a door.

a patchwork maze of wire and wood
that had to have a wire roof
to distinguish in from out.
the wire walls were partially buried
to prevent anything burrowing under
a planted fence that never grew.

right next to the pen is a convenient pond
for watering the birds and hogs once kept here.
one of the smallest and most ignored ponds on the farm.
one of the oldest.

barren blackberry bushes lean over the water.
it'd take a boat to pick em come summer.
there are deer tracks and droppings on the bank
and moss for a plush green carpet.


¢


the trashpile has always been an enthralling place
for a child with any kind of imagination.

dryrotted lampshades, forgotten babydolls, records
warped and missing their labels, toilet bowls, TVs, 
containers of every possible kind.

containers are the most disposed of items.

appliances.  a few things i recognize 
from before they were thrown away.
years of fallen leaves make the trash look like solid ground.

i just found a plastic elephant's head.
i'll take it in.

springs from mattresses and other furniture.
faded wooden frames, upholstery eaten by time.
the containers are overwhelming:  
pull-tab pepsi cans, green bottles, milk jugs.
mrs. butterworth wears flip flops.
a clothes dryer filled with glass cranberry juice cocktail bottles.

old green bike.  frame looks good.
i see the wheel of some toy truck.
an aluminum percolator with curved handle and spout
two-prong plug on its base.
soda cans from before tincans were aluminum.
a freaky pale doll's head.
another potbellied percolator.

yes, it's illegal to dump like this.
it's no more wrong than landfills,
dumping toxic waste into the ocean
or pumping it into the atmosphere.
this trash pile affects far fewer people.

i found two lightbulbs
in a stream
a halfmile off.

it wasnt illegal when it started
sixty years past.  a standing tradition.
there are other caches of detritus on other hillsides.
trash collection is a recent development.

a trash pile is a record
of lives passed hereabouts
who never came back
to collect their deposit.

what was used & thrown away.
all those finished things.





 

mirror to mirror

the bathroom is the warmest room in the house
with its single heat register.
the door is kept pulled to.

it's dusty.
the medicine cabinet has a light on top,
sevral bulbs behind a discolored translucent plastic face.
all the lightbulbs are out save a single dim emission
through a variety of dirty yellows.

the bathtub has sliding glass doors.
inside is in rough shape & entirely unused.
the panelling opposite the doors
is coming away from the wall.
the water pressure is terrible.
useless space occupied by spiderwebs and dust.
for a while the sewer backed up frequently into the tub
til grampa dug a ditch in the woods
between house & lagoon
to find a broken pipe.

i keep books on the tank of the toilet.
the warmest room is suitable for a rotating library.
Ulysses & the books i use to avoid it.
brief choices of poetry or short stories.

out the bathroom window, 
through cobweb curtains,
the things to be seen
are trees & leaves
clouds & blue
on a cold day of 10.

the chrome glint through trees and leaves
is the side mirror of a sedan from the thirties
where it got left once it quit.

the car is full of leaves & inhabited by animals.
in the summer plants grow on the dash
& wasps nest under the hood.

there is a spare mounted on back.
the instrument panel is plain.
there are extra pedals.

the mirrors scatter light.

i never killed a coyote

there's a storm blowing in from the south
the wind's picking up
i hear coyotes early in the day

i wish i had a rifle
they're right over the crest of the hill
the first drops fall
and i hear more yelps over the wind

i should go home and see about supper
no use wishing you had a gun when you dont

in the truck the rain plinks on the roof of the cab
and falls heavier on the field of winter wheat 

over on the hill by the big pond

the first of the year
like another solstice after
the festival in its honor.

it's sixty today.
warm enough the smalltalk of weather
is noteworthy.
weather is a valuable commodity on a farm
like wallpaper in a victorian parlor
it produces flowers to smell
and wild grapes of rare vintage.

the pond is up.
the water is a good foot higher
and brown from being stirred
by recent rain.

the potential energy is captured
in winter's leafy banks,
the sole greens of cedars
and immigrant pinetrees.

at the low end of the pond
the mud dam separates
water from hollow.

there is a small stream.
the spillway for what
the pond collects from the lengths of surrounding hills.
it all goes to the same place.
becomes the source of a branch
that grows its way down this hollow, 
gathers more hill-washings 
to form a bonafide creek
that empties into a still-larger creek
that meets the Mississippi.

i ford the stream through a patch of briars.
crossing is a hop like jumping
the gutter on a streetcorner in the rain.

i follow the miniature ravine
a course cut that compensates 
for the interruption when the pond was built.

the trickle is audible and increases.
water has excavated stones
and found a way to be louder.

i come to an eight foot waterfall
that washes and wiggles
a meandering path down.

like a fountain in a bank lobby
or a well-designed park or garden
the water pools up.
a small gathering before
the downhill expedition
to the eventual sea.

i find a flat stone in front of the waterfall
where the falling is loudest.
it disperses the noise 
of faroff engines nad gunshots,
sounds everpresent as weather,
til the only sound is water.

exposed roots grow a thicker hide
to better support and protect
a tree that leans over the stream's eroded walkway.
the stones keep things from falling in on themselves
as this trickle turns its tones southward.
the stones are slick and precarious
for feet that arent liquid.

a full pond for the new year.
the wind adds texture 
to the disturbed water
it has churned up fresh.

the cloudcover has solidified.
it might rain again.
the trees move quietly against the grey.
the bulk of winter is still to come.
extremes and exceptions in weather warrant discussion.
changes are self-evident.

i resolve to follow water
to paddle across a full pond
pull to shore for a punctuated portage
and easy walk uphill home

tectonic winter

grampa asked this morning
if i felt the earthquake in the night.
he saw on the news it really happened.
the shaking we felt wasnt the house taking flight.

it was 3 or 4. i sat on my bed
lost in a page. the tremor
lasted long enough for me to wonder
what it was. the rook shook.
glass rattled in the windowframe.
the rain fell the same.

i was worried not knowing.
i got up, walked through the house,
sniffed for smoke or trouble in the dark.
nothing revealed itself. the furnace
came on with its quiet change of pressure
and cozy whirr. nothing was the matter.

i tiptoed barefoot across cold dusty linoleum
with a large glass of fresh wellwater.
never switched on a light.
back in bed i sat and watched the candles
til i felt satisfied with the calm of night.