It is the middle of October
and frosted leaves
continue to introduce
their descent as season
and self-commentary.
On the ground yellow-jacket
hees burrow themselves
into the windfall apples.
On the house the empty body shells
of locusts begin to rattle with
the plastic window covering
torn loose the night previous
in the first sudden gusts of wind.
South of the highway bridge
two extinct otters are seen
by Selene’s father while
setting traps.
“Mates swimming;
streamlined and playing
games along the Iowa River.”
In the midst of change
all it takes is one anachronism,
one otter whistle.
For us, it began with the healthy-
looking salamander who stopped our car.
So last night we stood in the cold
moonlight waiting for the black
coyote. No animal darted
from tree to tree, encircling us.
There was a time in an orange grove
next to the San Gabriel Mountains when
I was surrounded by nervous
coyotes who were aware
of the differences
between thunder
and an earth tremor.
Selene motioned for me to stand
still, and the moonlit foothills
of Claremont disappeared.
An owl began to laugh.
I remained quiet and obliged
her gesture not to mimic its laugh,
for fear we might accidently trigger
the supernatural deity it possesses
to break this barrier—
and once again find ourselves
observing a ball of fire
rise from an abandoned garden
which separates into four fireflies
who appear like four distant jets
coming into formation
momentarily
before changing into one intense
strobe light,
pulsating inside an apple tree,
impervious to hollow-point bullets,
admissions of poverty and car lights.
We stood without response
and other disconnected thoughts came.
From the overwhelming sound
of vehicles and farm machinery,
together with the putrid odor
of a beef slaughterhouse,
such anticipation
seemed inappropriate.
Whoever constructed
the two railroad tracks
and highways through Indian land
must have planned and known
that we would be reminded daily
of what is certainty.
In my dream the metal
bridge plays an essential part
and subsequent end of what
was intended to occur.
I would speak to the heavy
glass jar, telling it
the paper bullet
was useless underwater.
Three days ago, in the teeth
of Curly and Girl, a skunk
was held firmly and shook until lifeless.
The first evening
we hear its final death call.
At the same hour the second night
we hear it again. The third night-
sound is more brave and deliberate;
it waits to blend with the horn
of an oncoming Northwestern train,
forcing us to step backward,
taking random shots at objects
crashing through the brush.
We have a theory that Destiny
was intercepted, that the Executioner
ran elsewhere for appeasement.
companion returned on these nights
to mourn a loved one,
but all had to he deleted,
leaving us more confused.
Yesterday, we examined the dead
skunk and were surprised to find it
three times less the size I first
saw it with Mr. D.
My parents offered an explanation.
“A parrot or a pelican on their
migratory route.”
With our surroundings
at someone else’s disposal,
all we have are the embers
and sparks from our woodstove
and chimney: the fragrance
to thwart the supernatural.
From The Invisible Musician by Ray A. Young Bear, Holy Cow! Press.