13thWR

THE TRUTH THE TREES KNOW

Mice die because their world is level.
They never dream wings wait in trees
above them. Whatever they fear
springs on four feet over dirt,

like them. Fields plowed into rows
grow grain enough for mice
happy to stay close to tow sacks
in the barn, living on mouthfuls

through holes gnawed at floor level.
They raise their own under the roofs
of others, under boards,
the spare tires of tractors.

Never outside, under stars.
Before they slip out at night,
they wait for dirt to be still
under their feet. They listen

with their hearts' quick beating.
In silence, fearing all evil claws
drawn into foot pads softly,
softly prowling, they dart out,

pause and listen. If they hear wind
riffling through feathers, they believe
leaves are falling in summer,
until something snatches them up,

sharp as a cat's claws. Their lungs
make one quick screech, a rush of air
then silence, only the flapping of wings
lifting them upward to the moon.

HUNTING IN ESCANDIDO CANYON

Riding on hardscrabble, a man
carries his canteen wherever he goes,
his gelding only as good as its hooves
shuffling down steep arroyos. No man alone
knows where the next step leads--stumbling

bone-snapped in a snake hole,
or tumbling on dry caliche, his own bones
bruised or broken, far from shade
and memories of Saigon. None but a fool
would hunt this way except for meat.

Calves and clumsy steers fall,
have to be shot and quartered
and hauled away. Out here,
killing's always in season, time enough
for scruples back at the smokehouse,

stringing up beef and venison for winter.
Hawks patrol this prairie range all year,
wheeling, rising on thermals, and buzzards
black and formal glide for hours
in skies so blank they stare.

WAR NEVER STOPS UNTIL ALL VETS ARE DEAD

The fields are calm tonight, not one wild coyote howling.
The windmill is still, not creaking, no restless banging
against the fence by billy goats. How many nights
have we lain like this together since our children aged
and moved away? I hear the ticking of Grandfather's clock,
the far-off barking of dogs, the pack maddened by blood,

the whir and clatter of the roof in blizzards.
Dreams take me back to a war decades ago, most records closed,
engraved on stones in towns around the states.
I think of Harper and Don, names on a wall in Washington.
I picture children, some missing arms and eyes
outside Da Nang, shells exploding decades later

in fields turned into schools, playgrounds surrounded
by jungle growing back, the sudden burst and smoke.
Then I sit up and go to a window and look out,
knowing I'll see only the moon and silhouettes
of trees, not soldiers crouching through shadows,
not fire or smoke, or children bleeding.

THE LIES HONKEY-TONK COWBOYS BELIEVE AND FIGHT FOR

We hummed sad country songs
all summer, the yellow glow
of the jukebox making our tans

look jaundiced. With silver
quarters we made all music
Saturdays could stand,

all stars of Austin spinning
for us on records. Women
who danced came out at night

like Texas stars, glad for our
hard arms to hold them
and the gold of local beer.

They told us the lies
we wanted, how smooth we moved,
how necessary, how good

our shiny big belt-buckles felt
rubbing the hollow moons
of their breastbones.

- Walt McDonald