The Day The War Began

I fed the dog and he was glad,
a bald eagle lit in the red
willows ignited
by a sinking winter sun, and prairie
chickens swept low in squadrons
over the hay meadow. Wind swirled
through glacial upthrust country, around
the nosecone rock named Haystack Butte,
old snow smoldering
during countdown. I breathed hard
toting haybales and grain
to the horses, to a field mouse
trapped in the slick tin feeder. Undaunted,
it sat on its haunches and lifted,
with deft fingers, a single
rolled kernel of corn
and ate in the warmth
inches from the filly’s nostril. Three
lone coyotes on a trio of knolls
stopped me cold in the center
of a triangle of cry. They called to mind
the Hopi, their ancient tablet
warning of this war. East of here,
a crow-flown mile, the missile silo
lights, powered as always by the right

darkness, flickered on—less innocuous
in the dusk of that day. I forgot
I’d already fed the dog
licking his bowl clean a second time
within the war’s first hour—so lovely,
the oblivion of another world
where instinct says, this simply, live on.

Collisions of Reckless Love CDs are available from the Western Folklife Center (phone 775-738-7508, ext 2) and CD Baby.

© Paul Zarzyski. All rights reserved. These words may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.