the boy had never seen a rabbit so still
only its fur moved in the cruel wind

he pulled an arrow from his quiver
and took aim at the cottontail

his hands shook from the cold, but the
arrow struck its mark, almost

the shaft lodged itself in the creature's hind leg
now the rabbit hobbled in the deep snow

leaving a thin red trail on the white blanket until
the boy caught his prey and snapped its neck

fresh hot meat for the night's meal
his father would be proud

almost back to the village, the boy spotted the wolf,
white, nearly invisible in the drifts

he drew another arrow, but then  remembered
what the elders had said

a white wolf in winter may not be harmed
and a gift must be proffered

the boy sheathed his arrow, and lay the rabbit
in the snow, the animal's blood still warm

the wolf and the boy watched each other
and a great gust swelled

the boy turned away from the blast, the wolf;
behind him he heard the howls

a synchronicity, the wail of the wolf wedded to the wind
a marriage of flesh and the elements

the two were one in the boy's ears, until he found
his lodge and warmed his hands with fire's gift

the days, she counts
backwards, and recalls what she was doing
5000 sunsets ago

and she does know
5000 from now, she'll be gone, if number
wizards are right

on this winter night,
she thumbs through old photos
of loved ones now far away

she finds one of a sunny day
five decades past--she and her man long departed
sitting under a tree

there she can plainly see
the pines and the bed of needles
on which they made love

and directly above,
she squints to discover, a bird
caught in flight  

she returns to this night,
places the photo in the box where
it has rested all these years  

somehow, the image allays her fears:
the father of her children, smiling, holding her hand;
the bird she finally saw, wings spread forever

he stood on the platform--the rails
beginning to reflect the sun's first orange light,
burning fog off the woods, slowly

only that morning, he'd read
of a man out west who threw himself
in front of an oncoming train

he heard his own westbound
locomotive; he continued to watch the tracks
painted longer by a rising sun

he loved sunrise, though sunset,
of late, pleased him more, for he knew
they were finite, for all creatures

he suspected the man
who met the roaring diesel head on
had done his own counting

his own reckoning sunsets were limited…
but he wondered if the man knew that very beast
he met, though one of many, was called,
"The Sunset Limited"

when the moon was full,
grandpa and I would stay in town past sunset
the road home good, with few ruts, the pastures soft
silver in all that lunar light

his team was old, slow,
but grandpa knew no haste
even getting to the cellar, when
great twisters came

born the week Lincoln freed the slaves
he not once drove a car, though he lived
to read of Sputnik in the Gazette,
and died when JFK was elected

summers lasted a long time
with grandpa--I still see him. giving reins
a gentle shake, reminding his horses to pull us home
whistling to them, telling me tales

on a July night, the year of the Crash
he put his gaze on the fat orb, barely waning
“one day we'll put a man up there,” he proclaimed
but I thought he was pulling my leg

“have to put him in a cannon like,
enclosed in some hard shell, otherwise
we’d blow him all to hell, gettin' enough power
to loose the bounds of God's earth”

grandpa didn't live to hear Neil's famous words,
two score years after that summer night; though I yet hear the shod
hooves plodding, the wagon wheels rolling, and his words
soothsaying, whenever I gaze at a white moon’s face

(the old man told his grandson)
that fleck of light out yonder is Venus
all by itself, out in the dark
can we go there?

would take my old truck a hundred
years to make it, and there ain't no air
what do people breathe
on that planet?

ain't no people, just a mess
of smelly clouds and hot rocks
it looks so small from here
and white, very white

that's light from the sun
grandson, and that tricks our eyes, even here
wait, grandpa, I see another light
blinking, going to Venus

that's a big old jet,
fifty far miles from here
but it's getting closer to Venus
see it, will it land there?

no boy, it won't come any closer
to that fried rock than we are to Mars
I see it, see, I see it, closer
even closer, blinking

I told you light tricks your eyes
I s'pose you'll figure that out later
wait, wait, I can't see it anymore
did it land on Venus?

maybe, maybe so, son
but I don't know for sure, it's just gone
*'cuz light tricks our eyes, right
grandpa, right?