February 28
The Flock

-we keep asking the dead
all the wrong questions. -Darla Whitehead, The Long Storm

Here the word ends,
End too to end tends,
At you no end bends. -Musavi Garmarudi

9:00 a.m.

The tumour showed up
on the way to Oklahoma
about four years ago,
I believe in Jesus
she said to me
we're on our way
and can't take it
haggling over the price
of like new glass end tables
or sins, I don't know-
it's a yard sale,
I believe in Jesus
beet red, I must have turned
to look at the knick-knacks.
Her husband wants to be
a mortician she says,
in Oklahoma I believe in Jesus,
as if belief in lymphoma
makes it right.
Her wig band clearly visible
the sallow blend of skin
she was always brown
always believed in Jesus
though, amen, amen, amen.

5:45 p.m.

at Whitewater Draw
where the Sandhill Cranes
come and go on a yearly basis,
water table drops and leaves
cracky mud and gnats, the flock
mostly on the far banks
unwilling to move in a little
closer so that we might
hear them or feel their
territorial bicker.
Oh, last October there were 15,000
that left in March.
It's only February now
and the sun is setting down,
real fast, it is hopeless.
At the very last moment,
just like Firon when the sea
finally convinced him
one large group circled over
and the pattern
of wings as the sun
lit up the feathers
from underneath,
and the engine
of wings roaring
and the breeze
and yes,
the Good News
just before the Magrhib.

1:30 p.m.

The Jehovah's Witness
comes over about
once a month to bring
us the new Watchtower.
She is a real nice lady afterall.
I keep telling myself,
don't talk back, don't talk back.









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