From one of the draws, out of a mountain
across plains heavy with grass or dry
bleached and cracked by sun
He came
rifle easy in his hand, a hunting dogtrot
in his heart, brain singing with the hunt
the need for a kill
Old mountain men, born
and raised for the power of their backs and arms
valuing themselves little past those physical
strengths, and what survival finally cost them
when the necessities, time disappeared
with the game
Old men sitting on porches or scratching out
gardens, their blue black brown green eyes
cutting out a trail that now only hawks
dare follow
Out of the North come the snows
falling on storebought windows. Old men get
laid into frozen earth, their big hands
holding scars like lilies the coming Springs
may never bear again . . . . . . .
Keith Wilson
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