County Fair

We journeyed over miles of cultivated
countryside to the August County Fair,
heralded by Ferris wheels, and acres of sprawling
exhibition barns, where farm families display
prize produce, livestock, fiber − reminding us
our food does not come from the supermarket. 

We ask about the “chickens” − are politely
directed toward the “poultry” barn on West Street.                      
Proceeding past the horses, milkers, breeding
bulls, junior beef and swine, each spiced with smells
and sounds of judging, we arrive at Poultry,
a barn filled with exotic fowl and roosters’
raucous frenzy-rousing crowing cacophonies.                                 

A proud 4-H’er holds some birds for me
to touch and photograph.  I ask about
a regal rooster, war-helmet comb,
iridescent green and russet feathers. long
black tail.  She says he is the only one
she cannot handle.  He attacks with beak
and spurs drawing blood.  I nod: “He seems 
to me the most attractive rooster here.”
She smiles.  “That’s the only reason he’s alive.”                                    

 578    September 2013

The Last Time and Lament for Louie

Today Louie failed to make the jump up to the window seat.

 
The top picture is Louie full grown.  The bottom picture is Charley at 8 months in February 2015  

These two poems were written five months apart and mark two points of grief in our losing of a dearly loved pet and family member.  We had Louie with us a dozen years.  He had no other agenda than to be with us.  He was a joy to the eye and the heart.  

We waited a year to get Charley, a black standard Poodle.  Charley is different, lovable and a sweet reminder of the pleasures Louie brought us.
 

The Last Time                                             #562 February 2013

Today Louie failed to make the jump

up to the window seat. He flopped ungainly                            

to the floor and did not try once more. 

I would not see him on that perch again.   

It must have been embarrassing to him

for me to see the waning of his strength.

I notice now and then he stands there looking up

remembering the sun’s warmth, the view

of birds and squirrels.  He does not seem to hear

as well nor bark at strangers any more. 

I dread his further losses, weighing when

it’s time somewhere along his sad decline.

I watch it all and deeply feel my sighs.

and know that every living creature dies.

Lament for Louie                                                            #568 July 7, 2013

Louie died last night.  His presence shouts  

in the quiet house. We breakfast on the deck

where even the air is still, the wind chimes silent.           

The meadow, where he ran free, seems empty, forlorn.

A flock of turkeys, five hens, single file, 

with a train of chicks, slowly cross the field,

a funeral procession celebrating

the cycle of life.   Our tears lament this truth.

We will spread his ashes in the meadow

where his spirit can continue that

fluid canter and rhythmic trot forever,

doubling back to check a smell, alive,

always in the moment, looking to see

if we were still in the vicinity.

 

Halloween Owl

On Halloween he flew into my window.

I did not hear the awful crunching thud.

I only saw the eerie image, face

and wings, his powder left upon my pane

when sun’s illuminating breath revealed

this apparition.  Huge round hollow eyes

unseeing, stared blankly, no threat to mice,

unnerving to me, this day when dead souls wander.

Coincidence can seem like planned design

And often drives imagination wild.

The owl, I know, was just a bird, confused

by light, transparency beyond his lore.

He was unlucky: wild in mankind’s world.

The ghost I thought I saw was just an imprint.

Meadow Fog Shaftsbury

An image of the meadow fog