The Old Mule

A Note Before Sleeping

Nelson had a pack of hounds that followed him on pig hunts. I always thought they were the sweetest dogs until I watched one finish off a sow. That was the way it was in the country, always hard to figure things out. In the stillness beneath deep country live oaks, there was a constant dew from a river too deep for swimming.

The rice field is planted, and if we manage to bare off the birds, we should have a wonderful harvest. The adjacent Pee Dee River runs dark – a rich brown, almost gold color. From the riverbank we watch the drift of sawgrass, old lumber, and discarded tires from Myrtle Beach.

Quarter-drains dissect the fields in perfect pattern. They retain still gullies of captured water; these are hand-dug ditches, a way to move water on and off the fields. We start the rice dry, and flood it as the pods ripen with the swelter of summer.

It is difficult to work in a place with such history. The dikes seem to covet fallow fields. The water has been held back so long. Standing amid the marsh weeds, panicum, and crows, there is a spin, a speeding up, and a sinking. There is a rhythm to the tides. A falling back from the banks, revealing pilings of loading docks, discarded bricks, and hand marked pottery. Up on the high hill, two chimneys loom, draped with virginia creeper. No place can lose it history. No story can ever cease to be told, as long as it once was whispered. There are always echoes, retellings. The journey, then, is in the listening.

Abroad, at Home

Amid great storms, I am headed north. My page is marked, a paper folded. Stamps stuffed between my boot heels may be the currency of future communications. Nerves jump; my coat was not sewn for rain. My ticket has been purchased, and already the dull ache for home has saddled between my ribs. In concert, the bellwether birds sing praise for small journeys. In effort, I am launched. The mark is upon me; whisper not a word. Soon I will return.

Texas, 1928

An escape was imminent. Taking turns, we picked with our unwound bedspring into clay earth. Darkness deepened and a stale dank fog overtook us. Overcome by madness, we cursed ourselves further through that rabbit hole, certain that our clawing selves, now creatures, would be made right again by sun. Through decades of soil we listened for the chat of women, oak limbs in wind, the sweet rattle of petrol-engines, anything, anything.

The Federalist

By noon we reached the outer harbor. Oh this unsteady ship, termite infested schooner with rotten bolts and a bent-needle compass. The large sail lags, a wine keg springs leak. I listen to the hum of mosquitoes and contemplate the asisninity of exploration. The southern coast is a wretched jungle, campsis vines curl at my feet, motionless on a plank of hollow timber. Three splashes indicate the release of my final few men. The depths have taken them, at last. A monkey calls. I am not reminded of home.

In desperation, the pigeons were set free. Sailors shriveled to hollering owls, hooting through their cabin doors, each bound by a nickel-plated latch. Gun powder dampened. Tides overcame armless oars. Coast swept by. We seemed still, but the roll of the stern against a waxing moon ocean bore us further downward than we gathered.

Amid chaos, the noted detail can be disquieting. I can attest to the beauty of penguins. The orange beaked webfoot, too, was excitedly sketched. But the ever dreamt bottom, in cool white corals, with stinging fish and sand – all perfectly arranged, proved a visage that my watery plunge shall forever afford.

The Tap of Extinction

A great time has passed. The pages are filled now, photographs mark an aimless motion. Amid growth, it is important to remember the artic, the decline. We mark our cards for efficiency, draw them with peace. From our visage on the Sierra Norte, there is a parade down the hill; men stand in masks, solemn; women sing with voices of coyotes. This is a battle for remembrance.

Our motives descend from longing to love – often unrequited, blistered by a sun too new and unshaded. The deeper stream specimens carve out a history of fecund growth. A towering, round poplar, upright and looming, manages to involve the eastern winds in a sordid act of recollection. At dawn, we draw our mules toward land, finally released.