wind across the wire
when leaders say we'll cleanse the world with fire
and jingo prophets teach democracy
I walk far out of town once more
squeeze between some rusty strands of old barbed wire
and hike beyond the no trespassing signs
that guard an ancient snow-quiet hill
just to see young trees: aspen, birch
who owns this place? no one
seems to know or care—that's why I'm here
little springs pulse and feed
the earth
trickle over limestone fossil rocks
at wood's edge an old log tobacco barn
jumps out
door storm-weathered creaks on one hinge
I poke my head inside
smells of musty dark
pungent empty
instantly quail thunder from a rafter in that void
flushing out the door
{no one would expect them roosting here}
dissolving far away in snowy fields
a covey of feathered comets, almost twenty
whicker through me
their wingbeat laughter
an apocalypse
quick pulse the springs
listen gentle quail boom
through windblown fields
lighter lighter than the snow
bob-white bob-white bob-bob-white
—Cyrus Campen, Wausau, WI
