Ritual of grass

how some fall in fields swept by wind, trails and burrows of weasel, mole, mouse and coyote uncrowded, spreading fingers toward low hills whose pine needle floors are cooled with evening's kiss, piedmont graves with fence of steel, my grandparents lie forever with a view toward the western range, one day you will stand beside me watching those multilayered clouds divide thin skyscape into vast oceanic treble-hook fist, blinding thousands of dogs whose willing tongues drench lichen granite veils by running over that spanish ridge, down that gully where mule deer crest and fall each afternoon, barking mulies too, they got shot at by grandpa when his mood was in prairie volly or moskee tribunal, cracking open chamber loading and locking, dutiful sight compressing space and time into one tense knuckle on his right hand, ready to squeeze the life out of a six-point buck, smell of gut, hide, blood in garage late afternoon while dressing and portioning for freezer, marking those white-wrapped packages of venison with red magic marker, no sadness nor longing for companionship, an easy evening with sharp and polished knives, sawing the bones now and then, taking all of sweet time's stretching hand into his for this dance, ritual of grass and creek-fed palaces during a cool season, down with the apples, down with the coal.