Saturday before supperthey take on spring in pickupsmake the rounds through mudjaunty the ruts of latticed country roadsmy father at the wheel of the green DodgeUncle Stanley passing whiskeydumped in gulps on fizzling cokeserious talk mists the windowsthe business of men solemnizing the drink under uncle’s arm I clasp my own small whiskeymy unsure place […]
At dawn we tread the frosty ground in withered parkas, work clothes of linear and tangle. It is a shock when my father’s eyes meet mine so blue, so different from the mettle of his voice and tools. There lies the triumph of his enigma, the sleight- of-hand, where your eyes follow the fox to […]
it’s nice to see the horses down in this place they call Palliser’s Triangle where I stand still at a hundred and ten watch the sky pull away from me the road is iron flat and rolls like a tune through land where nothing cooperates or eventually disappears an act of mercy some might say […]
