A Safe Place

A poem about a field

Near Tensleep, WY - 2011

A Safe Place

An edge, or verge
A sleeping field, or meadow
Fallow ditches ridged, then drained
Rows of crop grass for lawns
Varmint holes, and hawks    float
over said field.

A deep, tangled birch copse, bound with
blackberries, harbors blunt-headed scrub jays.
No cats roam there, many nests
products of         empty space
unused space, unused place—
a safe place. A place that is safe.

One day running I see a sign
put up to a vote, to design a new "development"
for the field. Large homes, empty streets, cars
and heavy black asphalt, increase the heat
by two, three degrees
on the hillside, use water,
cause rain to run off, rather than sink in.
And the birch copse, and all those homes, varmint, jay, carpenter bee, and little bird—
gone.

Soon tracks of big D6 Cats come to roam this place,
shred birch, flatten copse,
crush the varmint bones, 
but just by accident.

So what's the point of a useless, vacant field?
A sleeping, fallow place—which I like to wander in, 
or just to be in,
for free. For everyone. A safe place.
A place that is safe.
A place that contains many homes.