About Me More

I published a newspaper in our county,

reporting the obvious truth to a time-warped world

on the edge of civilization.

I wrote about the postmistress on the job for 40 years,

the waitress who collected antique rhinestone

western jewelry, the saddle maker, the boot maker,

the bit maker. The man who restored carriages

and small buildings. I covered the squirrel roundup,

ground hog supper and super bull rodeo, reassuringly

the same year after year.

Some of the rocks I turned over had scorpions under them.

For three years I wrote stories about local politicians

who stole $12,000,000 from our poor county treasury.

One of the politicians called me a scum bag.

Another compared herself to the Alamo.

The grocer told me I was evil. Right or wrong,

no one wanted to be exposed. It was hands off.

I was stuck in a misfit western movie.

At the market, on the post office bench, the courthouse,

the jail, the bar where the cowboy walks out,

gets on his horse and rides down the street to buy chew.

The independent, the closed-minded, the generous

drop-outs and drop-ins. The sentimental.

The swami. The snow fall after the Christmas

pageant, the miniature stallion, the gas man

who fixed my leaky stove.

I couldn’t unlock the rusty latch in the stagnant pond.

I closed the paper down.

Now I interview the sparrow on the juniper post.

The robin egg spilling its guts in the corral.

Does lying in their box elder den. Shantung.

I photograph the black bull full moon.

I report on the difference between water running over rocks.

A head count of dandelions, ears of thistles.

Metropolis of clouds, winnowing snipes.

Calves tails when they run. Willows in their scarves.