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

 

 

 

Patch

I showed Bobby my brand new cowboy hat. It was the end of a long day on the patch. I bought it 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 definitely had a presence, no doubt.
 

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

Bob, on the other hand, wore a modest black felt number, made when hats were as common as belts and suspenders. A 4X, which is far more pliable, so to give with the wind yet deflect the hard rain. Its slightly vague shape had been 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'd kept it resting on the cowl of my Dodge 360 until that very day. I'd 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 at me in their city dialect. Sometimes I'd talk back, or ask a question directly, I told him, by 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 chiding 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!

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


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

 

funeral in Spring

For John, and the farm, the country and his family, that same small town and its neighbors tending the land and their community, its familiar landmarks and services surrounding, that allows one to come home however long they were away.





geese flying home
above the Willow River
as for Our Saviour
a little late before we leave





a funeral in Spring
Country Western from the radio
melt water fills the fields




wait, there's more ...





outside of Sibley County
almost to Le Suer -
a Green Giant greets us
standing on a hill





bare trees, their blunt tops
wore down by the Minnesota River -
Le Traverse De Sioux





" if a guy were smart" he'd say,
looking away
at an object in the distance,
you might look there, too
to see who's there,
or what was comin'
but what he was sayin' ,
was really about you"







his wardrobe was unique
flannel shirts, just red or blue ...
I cant think up a poem
about all those ears of corn






each voice in the choir
on its own, distinct
the congregation, rising
feeling on its feet






it's time to leave
the service is over
all of us together
we lift our keys
and shake them
in the air










John was an outdoors man.
You could always find him there
grading the neighbor's roads
sittin' up on his red tractor
or a tree stand in November
he'd built for some friends
by a corn field above the snow
trolling in his v hull, maybe
little kids with so he'd go slow
and once he took me fishin'
out on the ice, in wind and cold
me, a city boy, we just made a few holes
he left me with a jiggle stick
in a fold up, with Mr Heater
out of the air so I'd be warm
after awhile, a meditation later
'what's that smell' I began to wonder
just like hair and smoke and oil
that Mr Heater it turns out
got too close it burned my jacket
as well the lining and the down
to my embarrassment, something to behold
he come back and had a look
he laughed a little but - i did, too
he made it feel a rite of passage
our gentle laughter
just between he and I






John liked to toast
with a tall brandy seven
if we drank beer
it'd be somethin' old
like Hamm's, Schmidt or Buckhorn
we'd laugh so much it'd just get warm






"well, looks like we better go on in."

The Game

The Game


After the match, lively chatter and lukewarm cervezas flowed in earnest. The common language of who could pick out the open man, the places we’d seen, and what the future held so far from home rattled off metal clad trailers and diesel behemoths liberally dusted with the pulverized clay that permeates every surface in the heart of the Bakken. Observing moments of the beauty and encompassing kinship that is soccer, some of the spectators were there with ulterior motives. Could any of these able-bodied young men be recruited for a start-up oil company in dire need of labor?

Huge amounts of money were at stake, a deal made or lost depending on the whims of man and nature and highway conditions from New Mexico through the Texas panhandle. The whole affair was a gamble from the starting whistle, conjured by chance encounter on the trail and just as easily blown away with the prairie wind. The prize for the victors of the impromtu competition? Fleeting glory and a twenty-four pack of the least expensive beer.

(to be continued)

the half-moon gone red -
a cloud of dust thickens
the atmosphere

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

Prairie Rose

A mile or two west of Dickinson, ND, and the cell and wi-fi connection gadgets are barely operable. I found if you stand on a rock you bring a signal in. But mostly I go into town now and then for smokes and supplies, find some high ground to make calls, search the state website.

Along the way I met some long-time residents, their dialect full of 'd's' in place of 'th's' and a way of speaking like old Scandinavians in Minnesota, yet oddly westernized, as though any moment they might burst into cowboy song.

Like lots of older folks they seemed starved for conversation, for someone just to listen.

This old fella come up and asked me where it was I was from, what my plans were and, mostly without prompting, talked about how the town had changed with the oil boom - real estate prices through the roof, old-timers selling out and leaving, and 'wasn't all the traffic just awful'? I commented on the trusting nature of the town's people, and for a minute he seemed to brighten some.

I forget what else it was he said . . .


prairie rose-
a barn swallow suspended
in ceaseless wind


;;;

 

Little Muddy

milkweed spills its silk -
abandoned shacks, the barn, a loo
recall a time before
















dust and grease, the sticky clay
a drilling rig's relentless motion






on the longest day; the heat of the sun















the Little Muddy is dappled
while sunset tints the twilight, too
as for the mayflies' fall
so begins the sparrow's reign