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V. Runes Gambol
The chipmunk is not as ignobly brazen as the squirrel— not the crazed mad dasher crossing the roadway, then
turning around, with its tail a raised question mark in the air, always twitching, as the squirrel speeds beneath
the wheels of the moving car. The chipmunk is not as imprudent or daft as the squirrel, is not at all maniacal, but
behaves more in keeping with an athlete, its white racing stripes emblazoned on either side of its upper back,
intimating speed, although not in the squirrel’s mindlessly frenzied fashion, but more in the way of a sprinter, with
the finish line of the other side of the road its inevitable destination, a veritable cross-road dash, acorn in mouth,
its four feet engaged in the very definition of what the word bolt means. However, as much as squirrels
may be fleet they are not known for being friendly, such impertinent creatures as they are, muttering their harsh
chatter, lunatic interlopers always setting limits that exhibit a boundless temerity. Whereas, a chipmunk I chanced
upon hiking Mount Lafayette, as I stopped mid-mountain for a rest, volunteered to join me in a snack of trail mix,
tame enough to eat some right out of my outstretched hand, filling its mouth at various intervals until the pouches
in its cheeks bulged, and upon surfeit it returned to its hole dug into the earth beneath white pine, only to emerge again
for more peanuts and raisins with which it could line its burrow for leaner times, whom native Americans
called the one who descends trees headlong, whose nicknames include steward and housekeeper—
how we gamboled that summer day, Tamias striatus, both of us bartering trust, having befriended one another. —Wally Swist
THE RHODE ISLAND CAT THAT KNOWS
Two-year-old Oscar has grown up on the dementia unit of a Nursing Home. He wins the platinum loyalty award where as most dogs only receive the gold.
Dr. Joan Teno of Brown University bows not only to Oscar’s perfect record in death predictions 2-4 hours before its arrival, (more accurate than hers), but to his steadfast companionship, remaining at the dying patient’s bedside.
After twenty-five such vigils nurses now call relatives when Oscar makes his final visit.
As if that were not enough, Oscar is gorgeous. —Jane Herschlag
IT’S ALL ABOUT WHO YOUR FRIENDS ARE
Cows in the distance, small as crows, go unnoticed by this calf smelling mother’s breath. Mom’s white eyelashes fringe calm eyes.
She’s as curious about me as I am about her. She lets me talk and stand close to her calf. This trusting mom must be friends with the farmer. —Jane Herschlag
Owl, lost
Your face watched me Your eyes of a lonely girl turning away side after side looking over one shoulder then the other to draw me from the basin within the tree that hid your children
When you left the branch it swayed so little I wondered if I had seen you at all then your gaze locked mine from another part of the forest tearing my gaze again from the dark eyes of your young ones
Now your tree seems empty Its opening a mouth twisted in a laugh the autumn leaves covering that mouth like the palms of a hundred hands
No young ones No bones or ruffled snags of fur fallen beneath your ledge Nothing but sanddust and darkness
I want to see you I want to hear you calling in the night That silken whisper Even if it is not me you call Even if it is me and the night grows short —Kelley Jean White
The Larkspur
All flowers live up to their names an eponymous breed claiming colors, scent and heart warriors with spears rising in the field able to bring us to our knees reminding us of forgotten dreams those small hidden places like shadows under the dark leaves surrender written on the wings of a moth
I loved the larkspur before I had ever seen one one word conjuring another world and I lived in both the wildflower meadow sits in the sun a disdainful garden needing no man weaving spells and humming the land all we can offer is the glorious names. —Susan Oleferuk
HORSE
With my left hand on her shoulder, my right sliding across her back, I take in the smell of horse, pushing my nose into her hair, rubbing against her until she leans into me as if she wants to fall asleep inside the love. Stroking and stroking until her coat takes on the sheen of newly-minted light. Measuring the distance inside a wish to be one with horse and landscape, the way the sky feels when I lift my hands, stretch my arms apart to split the clouds and know a horse is the fragile piece of God, the divine bit of flesh that fell to earth with us, took on the definite bones of being mortal to be what we cannot be, strong where we are weak, weak where we are strong, so we become the one thing when I slide my hand over her back and press my cheek to hers, warm and giving as the morning sun. —Constance Rowell Mastores
—Doug Macdonald
Where the Tree Fell
Watch the water as it winds Its way over root, a tide That clasped, unclasped, wound, rewound, Drenching leavage, loam. Alone This tree learned by rote the right To root. Now broken branch, bough, Trunk and terminus unknot. Wild west winds brought this tree low, As low as earth would allow. Now wind blows where it is not. Broken where it used to bow, As tangled as words I write, Giving to the living a loan That opens earth, a raw wound Where the tree roots were untied. Roots too shallow for west winds. —Laurence Snydal
Eclipse
Tonight we shadowed the moon. Well, she’s been Our parasol, darkening our doorway Only too often. Now it’s her turn again To back offstage into obscurity, play Her part, fill her ashen plains, empty seas, With earthdark. Be terrified. Draw your shade, Moon. Hide in the earth’s focussed cone that frees You from the spotlight for these moments. Fade To a shadow of yourself. Be dark there As we here, as we here block the glow of Starshine that’s your customary wear, The glamour of chastity, madness, love. Stardom eludes you now but only through This brief eclipse. No reflection on you. —Laurence Snydal
After the Earthquake
When the earth spoke it didn’t mumble. It groaned and growled. And the two firs whipped Branches hard against the house. I slipped To one knee, heard the backyard grumble, Shiver, shake, snatch at its compost quilt With dirty fingers, settling back to Unmade beds where gardens might come true. The dog barked. Our confidence was spilt Out on the ground. Stone bones sifted through The meat of mud and loam, sandy glands Swelled with sweat. The earth here raised soiled hands To heaven, stirred in its bed, and you And I trembled too. Now how can we keep Our covenant with certainty and sleep? Laurence Snydal
—Doug Macdonald
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