Silvery Night

A wind from the North
blows unknown change from afar.
Silver comet falls
below night’s starry canvas—
A new year glitters to life.

Still-Hunting

Bare feet stride slowly,
deliberately feeling
the pulse of our earth
Oneness with the leaf litter
Elven footfalls make no din

Ekphrasis, "Monarch of the Glen"

The stag clacks up the stony ridge to a crest carpeted by wispy grasses. Here he surveys his airy dominion. The sky, a backdrop of slate, portends coming rain. The damp air folds around the Cairngorms. He strikes a noble pose with head aloft to scent the hinds lingering below. With neck thick in anticipation of autumn’s rites, his mane bristles like a rampant lion. His roaring bellow echoes from Ben Machudi—a proud declaration of his unrivaled sovereignty. Barrel-chested and prime in life, he struts with justified haughtiness. His sienna coat turns the howling wind. Is àrd ceann an fhèidh sa chreachann. Lofty is the deer’s head on the mountain. His rightful seat remains unchallenged. Satisfied, he beds on the lee side of the mount and chews the tender grasses. Above the wheaten cradle his antlers reach skyward like barren oaks. Their branches, unadorned, quicken the heart of a gamekeeper watching jealously far below. But safe still the stag remains, for even Bran or Sceolan dare not tread here.

Sermon on the Mount

This Sabbath I keep in Nature’s own church.
Grown tired of man’s pageantry for ego’s sake,
I humble myself on stony altar ‘neath one solemn birch.

Choirs of geese worship, as this sinner’s soul I search.
No crowd to please or reason to sincerity fake,
this Sabbath I keep in Nature’s own church.

Christ’s Sermon on the Mount was taught from such a perch.
Light snow whispers liturgy as bowed knees quake.
I humble myself on stony altar ‘neath one solemn birch.

I arise renewed—the grand panorama gives cause to lurch.
Testimonies whirl round me in each glistening flake.
This Sabbath I keep in Nature’s own church.

No apostate or hypocrite could this temple besmirch.
Holy Baptismal, each morn, is held reverently in virgin lake.
I humble myself on stony altar ‘neath one solemn birch.

Come hither, yon saints, and my denomination research.
Hear with me the still, small voice whose Truth I dare not forsake.
This Sabbath I keep in Nature’s own church.
I humble myself on stony altar ‘neath one solemn birch.

Toxophile

A taught string anchored
with raw power suspended.
Thirty-two inches
of bright-feathered Lodgepole Pine—
a falcon screams in her stoop.

Election Day

A voting booth in Mt. Herman Baptist Church--
weighty decisions lead to a philosophic search.

A musty old building where doves and hawks preen,
guarded by elder women—an unlikely scene.

Yet here they sit as I slyly say “R”.
I watch for a reaction but this doesn’t get me far.

Matriarchs in folding chairs have seen the wars come.
They’ve hung up yellow ribbons and sent off their sons
dapper and proud as they marched to the drum
to be riddled and splattered by the other man’s guns.

I think of them in reverence as I blot with my pen
and their sacrifice in Normandy, in Kandahar and Phnom Phen.

I consider the debt, joblessness and libert-y;
I wonder if my brethren will decide the best for me.

I fear sometimes, this majority rule
and wonder if he that is served by a crowd is not a damn fool.

Yet my civic duty I needs must fulfill
So I drop my choices into a weathered wood box.
Despite all the snakes on Capitol Hill
I’ll take my chances with these frail-looking locks.

Free and fair elections are democracy’s thing
We will see how that goes with this new Arab Spring.

Oh for a chance to right what’s done wrong
and voice my opinion like a Seeger folk-song!

For now, a small sticker on my left lapel—
I’ve done my part and voted while the world’s gone to hell.

Houndsman's Winter (a Haibun)

No trail lies before me in this inky dark timber. I sweep headlamp to and fro in search for a glimmering eye. Ahead a tricolor hound bawls savagely, raking claws in an effort to scale a cottonwood. I splash deep into the river—chest deep in the icy current. The December air rushes to meet my wet skin and the Carhartt canvas only does so much. I make it to the towering tree only to see the raccoon bound from limb to limb. The dog, experienced in this game, trots alongside the shrewd foe. 2 a.m. has never felt so exhilarating. A barred owl’s hooting is interrupted by the crack of a .22.

One pelt for the wall
Southern pleasure as men sleep—
baying in the night


(Photograph is used under Fair Use Law 17 U.S.C. § 107. I offer the following commentary on the photo. This is a classic photo of a beautiful Treeing Walker. The original content may be found at http://i33.tinypic.com/vijfrp.jpg).