Ramblin Jack Elliot and Woody Gutherie
Wet backed in animal grass that grips the edge with lengthy green claws stopping itself.
Limestone bones whitewashed by seasonal nudes when the unhappy tree says again how little life it knew.
Chert arrows, glass flint ringing as it meets another stone body, singing of their estrangement.
Grey clay walking, pompous coils of white snail shelling, little abandonment.
Ignorant and unseasonal fossils. Plaques of previous time, sessile low living embroidered as lithic lace. How marvelous your oration.
Sheds of the annual deer always nervous where it goes, lean ears conducting his symphonic wary.
The quail run, it’s shallow scuttle, it’s quiet fury, that apostrophe bird owning it’s bramble home.
Hedgeapple trees, their curious brain-fruit, citrus green and cerebral textured, ample with bulk they heave a response in a muffled huff when earth calls them nearer.
The land I know. The overburdened prairie. The reed sea. Far away from any of you. How I adore it’s story, how I am made of its tenured histories.
—To the Catcher