Poem - "Sage Creek"

One of my poems was published in the latest issue of Written River: A Journal of Eco-Poetics.  It's a beautiful journal.  I hope you'll consider buying a copy, or better still, subscribing.

Here are the first few lines:

Halfway through the fall we drive west, far from urban glow,
To see the stars that we have never seen at home.

We go to the Badlands, at night, to the primitive campground
And listen to the coyotes singing from rim to rim
Of the valley where we are trying to sleep.
The voices of three packs rise like questions:
Who are you? What are you doing here?

You can read it all here.

 

UPDATE, 2024:

 

Sadly, Written River is now out of print, and their website is gone. Here, then, is the whole poem:

 

*****

Sage Creek

 

Halfway through the fall we drive west, far from urban glow,

To see the stars that we have never seen at home.

 

We go to the Badlands, at night, to the primitive campground

And listen to the coyotes singing from rim to rim

Of the valley where we are trying to sleep.

The voices of three packs rise like questions:

Who are you? What are you doing here?

 

Weary from driving, observe how much you want to stay awake

Now that you are here.  Explain

And give examples

From all your senses.

If the wind blows across sage, then what follows,

and how do you first know it?

What is the feeling of the prairie wind at night,

And why is it now new to you?

 

Dry weeds crunch under sleeping bags stretched out under the cold, living sky.

Our arms swing to point at Orionid flares.

We speak in the whispers of worshipers entering a cathedral for the first time.

How long have we lived here,

On the prairie, and never felt it on our skin, all night long?

 

Compare and contrast

The Milky Way.

Before tonight, you have never seen it turn.

Consider all the stars,

And the difference between reading about them and watching them slowly slip across the sky.

Wake to the feeling that it is not yet dawn, but no longer night.

With your eyes still closed, ask yourself how you saw it,

How this dry land exposes you to yourself.

 

For a little while, you hold your eyes closed,

And remember the bright green lines of shooting stars.

Holding still, you listen:

This is the sound of bison, breathing. Nearby

The staccato chickadee and the whirling meadowlark

Greet the new day

In this place we have so long avoided.

The prairie dogs at the edge of the campground eye us warily, and bark a warning

As we load the car for the drive home.

 

*****

 

David L. O’Hara

(2015)

Printed in Written River, Issue 10, 2016, Hiraeth Press.

The whole issue might be available on Kindle, here.