Monthly Archives: December 2013
Centennial, Part 3- homeless in america
homeless in america
we imagine we were born
here. if home is where the heart is
then why are we so anxious
to leave? why can we see it only
once we’ve gone? it’s not about walls
and floors, windows and things. america
is a place of coming to, not from, the land
of the rootless. we roll across this landscape
like dunes stepping along a shore. we
are the forgetting ones, the ones who’ve left
are leaving, will leave- homelessness
the scourge of our age; even the cleanest
among us sleeps under a bridge
of his own imagining.
we are late to this land
if you’re white, you’re not from here
where did you come from, where
will you go? so little time to build anything
of consequence. the land is indifferent
the land can wait us out
the lakes in this valley are shallow and wide
like the valley itself. the swans come here to nest
blowing primordial trumpets. in the fall
the ragged V’s of their white bodies press hard
into high white clouds, their trumpets echoing
across the valley. the young birds need to fly
after months of rest, to rebuild their strength.
the birds remember. soon, they will rise as one
body, will rise white against white clouds
will rise up and over the white snows
of the passes, and be gone. somehow
they have always known precisely
where they belong. and for this
we must surely envy them
©J.A. Fink/Oldbonesnewsnow.com 2013
Centennial Valley, Part 2– Images from ranches, past and present…
Centennial Valley
I should probably be posting winter-themed material now, but I want to revisit some time I was able to spend in Centennial Valley Montana. This valley sits just above the toe of Idaho and was once the western entrance to Yellowstone. At its peak, hundreds of homesteaders came to the valley pursing the American dream of independence and prosperity. Today, it’s home to cattle ranches, moose and trumpeter swans; this winter the only permanent residents will be the caretakers at Red Rock National Wildlife Refuge.
In the days ahead, I’ll share a series of posts from the valley. Images and words from today and the day before yesterday.
for jane buck,
(who we never knew)
it’s always morning, always
spring when they come to the valley
lugging their trunks full of hope
and industry, fueled by the stew
of anxiety and ambition, stink and sweat
they’d heard this was good ground for grass
and for cows, but birthing anything
is hard business and this is hard land
a land of bad roads and sharp winters
shallow roots and bitter winds
how were they to know
they’d planted their hopes
in such a place of leaving?
empty homesteads dot the valley
like the prints of a great beast, leaving only bones
and skulls, the blackened eyes of glassless windows
roof-beams buckled by relentless snow
and loneliness. this morning
there’s ice on the long grass, and winter
stalks the high country. the snows
are coming. old foundations will be buried
unvoiced memories will blow on the wind
collecting into drifts in the dark corners
winter will return
to repossess time
© Old Bones, New Snow/ J. A. Fink 2013