|
Buenos Aires, Spring, with a Flowering Bush
except the Bush has no flowers.
The jacaranda tree mists the bright air with
lavender,
the Sunday streets thrill to silence,
dogs sniff lovingly at lamp posts,
sidewalk cafes tempt passersby
with tilted sunbrellas.
Beyond the personal green of my tiny balcony
a bird (species unknown, everyone I ask
names him differently)
whistles his three falling notes and a rise
at the end
endlessly.
Maddening, but this is Spring
and day before yesterday they were breaking windows
and burning cars and throwing tear gas
here and in Mar del Plata, the city of the Sea of Silver,
because at least 2 years 2 late
24 Latin politicians, presidents all,
had gathered to ponder
sincere declamations on Free Trade
and all that jazz
by the Bush.
Is a Bush surrounded by dissension,
the sound of breaking glass and the black
smoke stink
of hastily set fires
a Burning Bush
from whence great wisdom
shall crackle and pop like exploding firecrackers?
Your call, folks.
Waiting for Godot
(With thanks to Jamie McNally)
The Ranchers moved into the cactus-stabbed Texas hills,
coveting the land along the winding length
of the Pecos River
as it eased past towering gray bluffs.
They set the bores of their windmills deep
in their search for water for their animals.
They called him a "bobcat"
because his tail was short and tufted,
just long enough to balance his leap
on a running jackrabbit.
It doesn’t matter who was there first;
the reality is simple.
The two species can’t peacefully share the same territory,
the rufus lynx
and the sheep and goat raiser.
Late afternoon,
preparing for the bobcat’s nocturnal hunt,
the professional trapper smeared the jagged iron
with urine from the bladder
of a slaughtered tom,
baited it with chunks of ripe goat meat.
The bobcat, ranging his marked territory
under a black Texas sky ticked with stars
and the crescent scar of a spring moon
scented the challenge of another male,
along with the added temptation
of abandoned meat.
The jaws of the trap grabbed him
as surely as he had ever seized a bawling lamb,
but here there was no quick death
to assuage hunger.
We almost missed seeing him,
so perfectly did he blend into the rocky ground.
He sat unmoving on his powerful haunches,
observing us from cold yellow eyes.
Any gesture toward him
was greeted with a hissing snarl,
tufted ears flattened against his head.
We knew the hunter would come
to harvest the beautifully marked skin –
eventually.
When we returned to climb the bluffs the next day,
and the next,
the bobcat was waiting against the blue shadow
of the stark hills.
And again the next day.
There was something admirable
in his stoical patience.
The last day
we went wordlessly to the truck
and got our guns.
He died hard,
screamed, leaped against the first bullet,
and screamed again as we shot.
The noise hit the grey rim rock
and echoed back to bruise our ears in a cacophony
of defiance and misery.
We drove the dusty caliche miles back to town
without our usual laughing banter,
haunted by the image of that wild beauty
lying lifeless in a heap of blood-spattered fur,
one scarred leg
still tight in the iron jaws of the trap.
Sue Littleton has been writing for 50 years. Her experiences come from a sheep
ranch in West Texas to the sophisticated capital of Argentina, and from 18 years in
Buenos Aires to Austin,Texas.
A college education is a wonderful thing. She graduated at age 57. Her poetry returned
to her with intense joy and a range unknown before the mind-dazzling experiences of undergraduate studies.
Email: Sue Littleton
Return to
Table of Contents
|
