PHOTOGRAPHS & ARTWORK

A GALLERY WITHOUT CAPTIONS

IMAGES OPEN IN NEW WINDOWS…

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A TWO COLUMN LAYOUT

LAST RITE

  There is something in the meadow
            sundown red against the snow.
            It could be a mule deer cut off
            from the herd
            or that young mare of Tylers that broke
            from his pack string last summer
            when the grass was hock-deep green
            and the nights balmy.

            I go out and open the barn door.
            There's a little hay left.
            My horses are all gone
            to winter pasture farther south.
            I have stayed too long at the end of a lane
            that never gets plowed
            and now this early storm
            has obliterated even the way
            to walk out.

            I wait in the twilight
            with the rifle over my lap
            and wonder if I can do it.
            I haven't eaten for five days.
            There's plenty of firewood and water
            but the loneliness is worse than the
            hunger.
            Maybe I'll just keep the thing company
            in the lovely sweet straw.

            I have taken deliberate steps
            through icy air
            heavy powder
            to get here.
            The cabin seems years away.
            The animal comes closer.
            I can almost feel his breath
            through the cracks in the old wood
            his wariness
            his hope.
            Our footfalls merge
            on the trail to a warm death.

SPRING STORM

listen
reach for the flashlight
4 a. m. darkness like an animal crouched
that sound
my fear spills out the front door
with the pale beam
it's snowing
wind from the death-season stirred up

listen
is the lion down on the path
where I saw him last week
waiting in April for the red colt
who sleeps in the grass at noon?
the sound has a hunger
what is it?
the licking of a gaskin sheathed in ice?
a chestnut throat strangling?

listen
the horses are circling circling
hooves thrum on the blossoms
the white blooms from the night sky

listen
grey geese cry overhead going home
the cougar pads his soft retreat
snow whispers to the blind ground