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<div class="MsoNormal">Three Seasons</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">In the early seventies</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">Greg and I moved <i>back to the land.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">Here, no National Guard, no protests</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">on the steps of Bank of America,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">no hash to smuggle into Isla Vista.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">We watched leaves turn copper and vermilion</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">while rutting elk bellowed through air so still</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">even the aspen refused to quiver.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">The radio played country western.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">The local paper came twice a month.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">Outside, winter drifts swallowed</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">fence posts. Inside, I couldn’t feed </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">the smoke-stained fireplace enough</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">to warm the house and didn’t think </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">about the rifle tucked behind</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">his Gibson guitar in the bedroom closet.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">Nights shortened, river ice shattered,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">and every morning another newborn calf</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">shimmered among rangy herds</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">grazing in spring melt.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">With pickax and shovel, Greg</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">tilled thawing dirt for our garden</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">but never opened the packet of seeds.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">When he told me he wanted to leave this place,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">I thought he meant our home. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">It didn’t occur to me to hide the bullets. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>- Teetle Clawson</div>
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