white

 

falling, flailing

into a pile of loose change--

Summer white

 

 

Patch

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was the end of a long day in the patch when I showed Bob my new cowboy hat. I bought it in a western shop in Kildeer, up the line from Dickinson near Teddy Roosevelt's old haunts. I wanted to know what style it was, where it hailed from. Bobby was the eldest of a crew of Navajo carpenters from Arizona, a place better known for it's cowboy accouterments than any existence they might eke out there. 

Age wise, I was an elder, too, which may be why he tolerated my company. Bob sat still and eyed the prize, measuring it's weight and brim before he answered. It had a presence, no doubt.

 
 Just what I thought. Texas - damn straight - and a 10X besides. That means it's tall and sturdy and can't be blocked no more. Made of straw like a working man would wear, with a resin coat to make it stand up and dyed white against the noon day heat. It fit good and snug so it wouldn't blow away nor fall off in a tumble.

On the other hand, Bob wore a modest black-felt number, from when hats were as common as belts and suspenders. A 4X; far more pliable, so to give with the wind yet deflect the hard rain. Its slightly vague shape had shifted many times.

I pointed to the crow's feather tucked in mine. It molted from one of those city crows that live where I come from, found in the alley next to my door just before I started on this journey. I kept it resting on the cowl of my Dodge 360 until that very day - I stuck it in the band for a little bit of luck. Cocked a little sideways, it had that hat have an outlaw flair.

That's when I confided to Bob how them city crows would squawk and fuss, in their city crow dialect. Sometimes, I told him, I'd talk back, or ask a question directly, in a tone of voice or just the way I'd look. They'd turn their heads to eye me up, make some raspy call to alert their fellows, then resign themselves to clucking sounds, as though to chide me ... or, maybe they were just sad. 

 Bob looked at the feather, me waiting, while neither of us spoke. After a time he declared it was medicine - it could even cure cancer!

That's a good thing, I figure, 'cause I've been smokin' a lot more lately, you know?


 a hawk moth sips
 it's last bit of nectar -
the Bakken and the shale

 

 

 

Moth

moth in the house
descending toward the floor --
nights getting longer

Patch

I was up in the oil patch when I showed Bobby, that old Navajo elder, my brand new cowboy hat. I wanted to know what part of the country it hailed from. It definitely had a distinct presence, no doubt about that, and not something I'd normally wear.

Just what I thought. Texas. Damn straight, Missie, and a 10X besides. What that means is it's tall and sturdy, and can't be blocked no more. It's straw, like a working man would wear, but with some kinda resin coating applied so to stand up to any kind of weather, dyed white, so to reflect that noon day heat. It fits real good, nice and snug, so it won't blow off in the wind nor fall off in a tumble.

Bob, on the other hand, he's gotta 4X, which is far more pliable, so as to give with the wind or the rain, and it's shape can be shifted to almost any form imaginable.

I pointed to the crow's feather tucked in mine. It molted from one of those city crows where I come from, found in the alley by my front door just before I started on this journey. I stuck it in there for a little bit of luck. Cocked to one side, it gave that hat more than a little bit of flair.

I told him how they sometimes talk to me in their guttural city voices. Sometimes I'd talk back. Maybe ask a question directly, in my tone of voice or the way I'd look. They might look back at me then, turn their heads to eye me curiously. Sometimes they'd cry out angrily, others plaintively, a clucking sound, lonely or sad. Trying to warn me, I thought, or, just maybe, trying to encourage?

He looked at it for a time, and then said it was medicine - it can cure cancer. I figure that's a good thing, 'cause I've been smokin' a lot more lately, you know?



the hawk moth takes
its last sip of nectar -
the Bakken and the shale