Weekly Worded

Protocol

At Fort Huachuca
gophers dig tunnels under
the army’s parade ground.

Left. Right. Left. Right.
All night. Orders to fall in.

Weekly Worded

When the Cows Come Home

If you stack hay in the barn
the cows will return,
like the leaves, the flowers,
and the grass itself.
But for now it’s stone cold
and the brown fields silver
with frost in the morning.
Flocks of black birds
harry the herd, flickering
like notes blown loose
from a musical score,
but the cows don’t care,
don’t lift their heads,
shuffling in one direction
like a composer that hears
how the song will end
the moment it begins.

Weekly Worded

What the Fields Giveth, the Cows Taketh Away

Cows concentrate
with their heads down
on what the field preaches --
sunlight warming their hides,
a scent of alfalfa hay,
fresh water in the mud hole
from yesterday’s rain.
Any news that rises
ruminates for the day
and faithfully each cow
broadens with praise.

Weekly Worded

The Morning Sun

You’re up.
The birds have been waiting all night.
Damn your curtains!
These days -- the shortest distance between two points.
It’s always darkest before your eyes open.
Your tired, worn, and snuggled masses
must yearn to stay asleep.
Every egg has a sunny side, but none are cheerful.
Red sky, bloodshot eye.
Worms sleep later than most people think.
Hemingway? The sun never rises, the earth just turns.
Say I’m beautiful and I’ll follow you,
but shadows aren’t my fault.

Weekly Worded

Star Gazers

“Investigators believe the Dickinson State students
were on a stargazing trip Sunday and likely drove
into the water in the darkness.” (Associated Press)

I hope those three college friends
had only stars in their hearts
when the jeep they were driving
slipped from the road
over the embankment and into
its grave of pond water.

The next day the search plane
spotted the white jeep shining
from below the surface, as if death
could light a beacon, or the stars
fastened to Orion’s belt might
burn brighter with their last breaths.

Weekly Worded

The Willow Leaves

Rooted for so many years
at the end of a straight driveway
my willow this morning
has left me. It took off
during the night while I dreamt
of manicured lawns. This morning
I should have followed its trail of debris
but what could I say? Come back?
The litter you leave in the yard
is a pleasure to rake?
Who cares if you’re always weeping?
I’ve raised three healthy ash from seedlings
and planted a forest of pine.
I should have known.
It wasn’t just early fall.
The willow I loved has left me
and that is all.

Weekly Worded

Virus Detection

Able was a one, Cain a zero
and they’ve replicated themselves
since the beginning of time,
not an apple or a snake
but a virus making its way
up the evolutionary ladder,
pointing its little flashlight
toward our dim event horizon.
Had we caught it then,
the whole system -- planets
and stars -- would not have crashed,
and we’d be looking for
original programming, not sin.