Thursday, December 4, 2014



Picking our way through the brush
My dogs preceding, I listened
To a distant howling
And a bike up on Soboba Road.
The secret was to take
What no one wanted
And dive or hike there

Where we could find it.
The brush bristled
With menace; Ben paused;
Duffy got behind me.
Who would it be?
I touched the pommel and waited.
The liability of choosing

To be where we were
Was the threat of whomever
Would loom out of the depths
Or down through the fog
From the mountain.
I pulled the bone-handled
Damascus from its sheath.

It was as though a balloon
Burst or a candle was snuffed.
Whoever it was had backed away.
The wind blew down
With a hint of rain.  We stood
Where we were
And waited.

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