~WALT
MCDONALD~
LEAVING
THE SCENE
Sleet clicking
in the trees, and finches flicking
maize and
millet from the feeder. This late in spring,
and still
the thin smoke whips from chimneys
a mile away.
We rock and watch the dawn,
a ten-watt
bulb beyond the clouds. Is all
this sideshow
spring a barker's promise of warmth?
Our pears
bloomed weeks ago, awnings of green
chiffon.
The red oaks bulge, about to burst. Sleet
clicks like
thousands of clocks ticking in our sleep.
We take turns
leaving the scene with both mugs
to the kitchen
for more, draining the urn,
the stiff
steam bending as we straighten rugs
and weave
back through forty years of furniture,
drapes opened,
sleet beating a mute tattoo,
the old oaks
wet and dark out to the pasture,
sleet on the
steers' flat backs, bowing to dawn
and browsing,
always grass and blocks of salt,
the sky nothing
they ever watch, no matter what falls,
nothing fat
cattle can't endure. We rock
and sip in
silence, chairs turned to the porch,
grandchildren
far away, knowing whatever force
is coming
no one could stop, not even us.
© by Walt
McDonald
