Wednesday, July 27, 2016

Hawk Season Notebook #87



Hawk Season Notebook #87

To perish: by rock-slip canyon trail, night cough, tangle of barb wire, septic blood, honky tonk knife, a mountain half-climbed, or lightning strike while sheltering with black cows under a cottonwood. To die in bed tangled in tubes.... You slept once in a vacant lot, rose to shoulder an Irish backpack... and hike away before a Sunday morning sunrise. Someone had perished a December earlier in a construction ditch, crushed, and you have carried that Mass card for decades,... no half-torn at a fold. Today you are in a dentist's waiting room. An enormous wall TV... a cartoon... moles and rock chucks are fighting with broadswords. Beyond fifty  years ago, in a raggedy sweater, you were smug from a fight, happy, in sunlight. To perish: by barn hanging, avalanche, horse-toss, a hallway-of-screams with no exit. The slope has shadows... and you know some of those in such half-darkness.

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