The Vision of SonnyBoy

I saw three deer in the river bottom field;
two ole grey does and a yearlin’.
They’d come for the corn scattered around;
the remnants of October’s yield.

The frost lay heavy untouched by the sun.
The river was rollin’ with mist.
An’ three heads flew up when i stepped on a twig.
A sound like the bolt of a gun……..

The old grandmother doe searched out my eyes;
Had i cut off their path to the trees?
The river‘s high bank lay just at their backs.
They knew it; and it caused them to freeze.

Now, I didn’t have my gun, much less a reason;
for harmin’ them deer that mornin’.
But, alls they know’d was a man had got too close;
and all men go insane with the Season.

If it’d been Spring, or even late June;
They’d of just stood tastin’ the air.
But the Season drives deer as crazy as men.
They’ll spook at a glimpse of the moon.

I stood stone-still, knowin’ they’d seen me;
but they looked so fine in that light.
They were standin’ together, lookin’ me over.
Waitin’ for their fear to set’em free of me.

Then the yearlin’ was cued by the spooky ole does;
and they twirled on that field like ghosts;

with the river below; quiet and misty. They paused,
and i thought; they’re still froze!…….

Then with quiverin’ flanks; but with minds that know’d.
In slow-motion surrender; they jumped.
An I swear for the first time ever, I saw.

The wings black and flashin’ of crows.


The Indignity of Time

The  indignity of Time.

An aesthetic demise

painted with a heuristic pallette 

of slow, crackling,

              cold-fission fire;

sheets of rippling entropy,

layers of sloughing decay

expressed as the visible 

testimony of neglect.

Inattention begets consequences

as surely,       

         as the fisted glove.

          ‎                          -lg