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.