the Constitution of the County

all it takes is an opinion
in the coffee shop to
tilt the world.

try it for yourself!
fill up on caffeine and
fresh-baked hubris.

if you get an argument,
you win. if you get
silence, you win. 

check the rules:
coffee shops and rabid 
letters to the editor propose -

bad tips and irritated silence
dispose. (and everyone's
in the local judiciary.)

my county 'tis of thee: we'll
always have big talk,
hot coffee, and poor tips.

scatterings

millet
millet
cracked corn
sunflower
millet
millet
empty shells
junco tracks
everywhere

speak easy or not

so you’re on your soap box and I’m on mine
and sometimes we agree. meanwhile,
the fate of the world seems to hang
on the contents of our discussions. thank-
you, nonphosphate detergent containers,
for your support. and when we step down,
triumphant over I’m-not-sure-what, I predict
yet more fighting in the newspaper, some
made up stuff, and a general lack of
peace on earth. nothing new to see, carry on.

herdsmanship by Mythos

Loki knows: Goats are not "little cows"
and sheep should not be
in the same sentence
as goats. They dine differently.

Think of goats as Olympian
first cousins to deer -
with the fastest metabolism of
any ruminant under the sun. Godlike.

Just ask Apollo – he says he sees them
snacking all day
on the choicest weeds and leaves –
all over the territory.

Hera, that domestic goddess,
in her second career
as a personal trainer, recommends
roughage and low protein, nothing too hot.

Despite what any satyr will tell you,
too much grain
will not produce an Olympian,
nor a satisfying sex life, nor good kidding.

Just ask Thor, who goat-powers
his entire chariot -
then parks by a campfire
somewhere, and eats them for dinner.

But the next day, there they are,
back carting him around.
Still, you'll need to ask Zeus and Athena
for the rules of water-into-wine herdsmanship.

How it is he gets them to regenerate like that
is a puzzle only Minerva knows. 
But on Olympus, the first rule
of intelligent herding is ... keep all the bones.

http://news.yahoo.com/greek-police-recover-ancient-statue-goat-pen-162733743.html related article.

sounds

some of the grain hits the frozen ground
and bounces, like you’d expect from live
things milled for the exclusive use of
other live things. the sound of protein
on dirt and fiber of floor is a variation
never heard two thousand years ago,
when the sound of seeds sliding in
the midden and the bounce of a bone
on the rock shelter floor were softened
by the hiss of fire or the slough of sand.
the livestock shuffles in on grass-worn
feet, and next door, a vacuum sucks
what could become your heritage dinner,
locavore, if too much goes too wrong.
for now, let the grain rattle in the pan
and let the ice blue sky check it all out.
take a deep breath and think about
winter. we’ll see how this all plays out.
let some of the grain hit the frozen ground.

cold gravel

it’s that time when snow sticks-to-gravel
sticks-to-warmed sole coverings on
each foot and we gingerly heel-and-
toe it to the truck. years later, all
the gravel falls off as the heater keeps
blowing the winter blues, and the wheels
recall criss-crossing the Blues on black ice

we ask your inattention...

we ask your inattention
for the river that runs
so silently under
the Minam ice.
if you're not listening,
here is how it works.
we all stack up under
the bridge, take
a deep breath and...
hold your nose: we
plunge face first
as we slide down
the right-angle gradient,
seeking the final level
(you know how it goes).
pay no attention, you
fishermen and ghosts
and hobos and bigger
rivers and the sea: we
are coming, if you're
watching or if you're not.

any story

finding the story in the ordinary -
that’s called history, or could be
finding the story that could be
true, that’s  called poetry, or
could be. finding the story in the
clerestory, that’s called going
to church, and meaning it. finding
the story between the lines you
do and do not say, that’s called
fine translations. what do you say?

in honor of the pig mare.

in the name of all that’s equine we honor you:

hay forks and full wheelbarrows, rampant,

quartered with brushes and bagged oats!

precautions

at the barn, snow blankets the mare
gusts to twenty-nine
wise horses face downwind

at the back door, blankets come hot from the dryer
goosebumps Braille an alarm
wise people curl by the fire
 
at the sink, the faucet drips furiously
good pipes help, a bit
wise children let the dog in

 

in the hallway, the heater wafts warmish air
a sweater is not enough
wise women put out spare candles
 
in the bed, the cat’s stolen the blanket
snow likely tonight
wise creatures wait it out

ants eye view

mountains of hay
mountains of hey
how relative is it?

open wide

eyes wild with whatever's in sight

what is perhaps is
sufficient

the morning of a stationary front

pop. pop. pop. after the third frost
western larch is taking a stand
on Chief Joseph Mountain - pop.
pop. pop. – too chill, too still for
the legendary thunder to go rolling
over it, but the landscape knows
the old, cold story. pop. pop. pop.
and deer and elk listen hard before
making the first crackling step
back into the brush. pop. pop. pop.

baking garlic without a chuckwagon

Here, it's not like they tell you
in the tee-vee Westerns. Here,
there's actually a way to turn
the campfire to 450 degrees.
And here, there's no need
to chase the dust and flies
from the herd from your kitchen.
Not that herd, anyway. And
Ol' Cookie never had self-
sharpening knives or dispose-
all sinks. Still, today we rarely
have the opportunity for protein
in the biscuits - not without
a school science project, anyway.
Out on the trail, refrigeration
amounts to a wet bag hanging out
on a frosty night. "We could do that
here. But why?" Turn on the stove.

lower valley (half sonnet for contrasts)

we're not known for consistency here:

there's a fancy gate on a rasty fence
a bright plastic play gym fronting
a worn and flaky Victorian (note
the lead paint) and parked there, one
marvelously worn station wagon
next to a scarab-painted show car

who needs consistency, anyway?

riding the pony through the labyrinth

which way shall I go, which way shall
I go? pull a flip coin from your pocket.

now: at the next crossroads by moonlight
turn a bit, look left, then right, then 

left again. set your pony’s tail light a-
blinking, put your spurs on cruise-

control, and tell your friends, kindly,
what way you love ‘em or don't.  
 
now, you get to choose to whoa, 
to drop the reins, or take the keys.

sonnet for sustainability

a theory of surprise may turn success -
let alone competition - on its head.
so let's start. before all that, there's
the if/then. and if you're lucky and fail
grandly, perhaps the gift is in discovery
of the so what and the then what? smart
money talks - but you don't have to hear.

and maybe - just - complacency will take
some rich mud in the face, and from it
will sprout things you never saw before.
if the purpose of experiment, though, is
some desired result, you may get lucky
and discover the one watched pot that
actually never boils, and all goes awry.

or is that tweak of expectation the very
gift we seek? o surprise, and o peace.

wildlife superhighway

hard-hoofed, somebody stamped this spot

too “comfortable for a bed down," right
where the trail runs down to the creek.

signs of deer and fox are everywhere present
along the decline of the old waterway --
the one shoved west by high water and thaw.

and everywhere: grasses, weeds, grasses,
weeds; pawprints, and the holes in
the greenscape left by a sloppily 

bounding whitetail.  one more time,
look around this unlonesome place.
it is a streaming wildlife superhighway.

half sonnet for sunshine

the first shiny day after the first snow,
a friendly old guy stands on the corner -
waving to the men in rusty farm trucks
rattling down through the town. and! there's
a lady in a shiny pick-up truck, so politely, he
tips his cap, and leans on his cane in the sun
 

toward fresh bacon and eggs, just next door.

listening to drowsy maggie

flat flat sharp flat - the strings jingle
the obscure tune flutters through
high tech speakers. computer mediated
folk music rocks the house of the
lone ranger. there's a blanket on
the work chair and hot green tea
on the desk. better living through
electronics or maybe just simplicity.

no snow

today is very nearly 

the last day with no 

snow. drink up the dry
and warm, brace for 

the cold snap to come, 

or just pretend that
you pay no attention
to any of it. the gift of
inattention is a gift all
the same, though what
you get from tuning in
is surely a sweeter
windfall apple crunching
beneath your feet

I know it's just how life is but

lame fawn
circles my lawn

there is no 9 1 1

seasonal recipe

I know you think this calls for salt and pepper and butter
and an oven hot as hell
and bleach-flavored dish water, after

but the meal I have in mind is not the meal that can be
consumed – or not in that fashion!
so bring on the changes, colder than you expected 

and the little apples falling everywhere
while the customers bring their fawns
to the buffet out front  - and there is nothing left to step on

a shut door trumps a practice blast from the pre-
winter wind – not on stage yet, for 
the change of seasons is indefinite, but free

Heartwarming story of the week

It’s one of the old timers' dad's sons 
who rescued the situation -
gave the kids a donation 
at their car wash big enough
to buy gas to send everyone 
to the Big Contest, which
they won, pretty much 
against all odds, and now
we plan to put up a sign 
at the edge of town, “Home
of the Big Prize Winners for 2010” – 
or we would if we could just agree
whether that’s appropriate. So then
the son of the old timer’s dad
pretty much takes things
into his own hands the way
he pretty much always does,
and now that proud slogan graces
a newly painted, rather hideous
old barn on the edge of town,
and everyone is quite
unexpectedly happy.

from news from a small town poetry practice, August 2010

sonnet for cactus mountain fire

burning and burnouts - and my little house
under the flight path as usual - and there's 
that sky-rattling sound - you know the one -
bucket helicopters in the cool morning air,
the way it is before it gets thick and choppy.
on the highway and back roads - jet fuel and
catering trucks, Grayback crews, and green rigs.
 
and this report of local conditions to know:
hot, dry and crunchy in the canyons, with
flatbeds of off-brand gatorade rattling down
the gravel roads to fuel our sweaty fire crews.
no rain is predicted, but they say there will be
cooler nights and portable showers for all
back at fire camp - over at the rodeo grounds.
 
you may expect haze rolling over the mountains -
 for once again, it is summer before winter falls.

learning schedule

things I don’t know:
too numerous to list
too numerous to know
too dangerous to presume.
the fallback position:
appreciate everything
in sight; widen eyes
and ears with wonder.

cinquain for rising on a September weekend

colder
than the
forecast hot -
build a morning fire,
sweating

seasonal stirrings

John put gas in the tank
of the contract water wagon -
for the first time since
we signed the on-call contract.

fire, fire! everywhere else!
like some years, we wait
for dispatch, like others
we sit in the dirt and smoke.

a lean year for the hand and
engine crews - but fall
is coming, as long as
winter doesn’t get here first.

my address

box on a fencepost,
bunch of rocks lying around 

below Iwetemlaykin, dit dit dit dit


*Iwetemlakin means at the food of the lake. The old name for the Joseph area is Hah-um-sah-pah ... bunch of rocks lying around.

low hopes

the day the rain fell
from a cloudless sky
the neighbor said,

“this can’t be happening."

funny thing, but it does.
the day the wild creatures
rambled into town, the paper said,

“this shan’t be happening!”

but thank goodness! it did. the day
the good guys met the bad guys,
nothing much happened...

(and neither knew which was who).

perhaps tomorrow another
impossible thing will happen.
you never know until

“what happened couldn’t be.”