10th
Sand Country, N. Wisconsin 1973
Sand and pines
Roads of sand
Washouts and ribs
Leading through pines
Green tunnels running forever
Hazel brush along the sides
So poor schmuck trying to farm
The corn looks poorly
Already a nip in the air
The few hardwoods in the hollows have a tinge of color, only the end of August
Fresh woodsy smell
The sound of ancient language coming from
Hidden talkers
Obscured by the branching trees
The feel of pitch on your hands
The popping of cones
Heated by the sun peeping through the openings
The wreck of a logging camp
Stumps and scars in the ground
Heavy trucks driving on sodden soil
Left their indelible marks.
Old trees scarred from fires
Bent from winds
The sinuous path
Of last year’s tornado
Or ancient trial blazed by
Red Indians or voyageurs
As the made their way to the beaver rich
Streams or tracked
Scrawny deer or emaciated squirrels
Living on the poor leavings of the pines
The forest darkens early
The trees eat the sun
And leave the wanderer alone with
His thoughts, night sounds being to intrude
Moths as big as your hand
Flutter in the headlights
Coyotes yowl for only reasons
They can surmise
And back to the cabin
To lock out the creatures of the night
The ill wind the blows
The night air about
To sleep with the sun and rise with him as well.
