the offer

  

Out of the wind

a warm place to stand --

I offer only loneliness

 

 

 

wayward

 

 

    the rain ceased,

a wayward wind in the trees

      has it fall again

graze

 

a mob of black cattle

grazes through the fallow --
autumn wind

 

 

Juncos

those skittish juncos --
  spring gusts drove them
      flitting through the snow

wattle pods

 

 

           the heat --

        wattle pods lifted

           on a breeze

row

hurry now -
the wind on the water
makes it more clear

blank

冷たい風と雪、地図上の空白スペース







cold wind
and blowing snow --
a blank space on the map


` * * * * * `

mistaken

through the fog and the pine,
a glimpse of white birches --
mistaken for ghosts

like the wind

They'd sent us to fetch fence and stakes to surround the twenty foot hole where the twelve inch pipe lay. A hundred and fifty pounds of pressurized gas within, we were preparing to tie-in from a far off well to the main line. Anything could happen. Asphyxiation from deadly hydrogen sulfide, or a stray spark to the odorless, tasteless gas in the line itself might cause instant immolation, assuming tons of clay and earth didn't bury you alive first.

You hear the bosses talk about taking a chewing out "like a man" from time to time. How do you reconcile that sudden realization of impending doom? With honor and dignity, or scream like a little girl as you piss your pants?

Josh was driving the one-ton dualie back to the oil derrick's pad. Traversing the dirt road across the prairie's mounds and hills, he began to pick up speed. This nineteen year old from Florida had more gumption than most, I'll testify to that, but with a few less brain cells at his disposal. Formerly the whipping boy of the roughneck crew, I had taken his place. This pleased him to no end.

As the truck gained speed it left the ground over the high spots, taking us airborne for precious seconds. I'd raise my head to see if anyone was coming the other way. No matter what, it would be too late if they were. I held tight to the hand grabs like I'd mounted a runaway steed. Josh just stared bug-eyed above his leering mug.

"We're doin' a hundred miles an hour!" he croaked.

With out checking the speedometer, I watched the telephone poles go by like sticks in a tornado. Then I laughed, loud and hearty, from deep within the gut.


a cock pheasant
flushed from high grass-
wind on the prairie

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


;;;

 

Rawson

wind from the prairie
dries my sleeves-
these purple flowers
all bearing thorns





;;;

The World's Largest Buffalo

drought-
this light through the clouds
casts no shadow






hold on tight
and lean into the wheel-
wind from the south





ominous clouds-
the world's largest buffalo
come face to face