Monday, December 24, 2007

Sarge and I


A brown hawk
with hot thermals
beneath its wings
spiraled over us,
its darting shadow
kissing thousands
of dead white logs
cast about like kindling
after one of the logger gods
had tromped over the land.

Two tiny figures
on the vastness
of a clear-cut,
we moved like field mice,
scurrying along the rocky back
of trails through
the broken timber;
Sarge and I,
both silent,
listening only
to the shaman wind
in its ancient tongue.

Traveling far,
to road's end
and back
below the sea
of evergreen,
toward you,
warm there
in your tall cabin,
that seemed to sail
like a tarpaper ship
over the long grass
of your field;
past the special bush,
where the dew hangs heavy
on the barren branches
like crystal berries.

Leeward along the lane
we toiled
to spot your smoke,
and happy to hear
the music.

Glenn Buttkus 1991

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