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Hp is watching Top Gun in the living room, and all I hear are jets. He is watching it because I DVR’d it for him (is that a verb, DVR?), so I can’t really complain. He was a male tweeny child in the mid-eighties. Does the term “tween” apply to male children? I hope so. He still geeks out over Top Gun. That’s Tweenish, no?

We both missed our friends hard today. Hp, because he has a friend on the book of face named Loren Hartman, who liked a bunch of our family photos and shit today, and me because last night I drove nearly all the way into Sandpoint without seeing another car, and I got to thinking about the missing buffalo. It’s just still hard. I miss them so much.

That is the most powerful emotion I’ve got going on today, so I’m going to poem it, again. Sorry if it is sad. I sometimes get sad.

Empty Fields

There are are empty fields all around your property, all around our land there is absence. There are missing bison in the land I always looked on my way home, and there are no snow-shoe marks in the snow on the way in to school. Not any more. Muddling along without you, that’s what we do. Clinging fast to the handiwork that you left, inhaling lavender, taking big and filling lungfuls of cold, cold air, seeing the breasting moon and thinking of you, it doesn’t make it any better. Makes it worse and lonelier, makes it pretty and sadder, bright and weary in the darkness, underneath those limbs burdened with snow. There are empty fields, every where, just everywhere, wherever you were, on the field and on the screens, big wide blanks, everywhere, just everywhere. Still I hear your voice in my mind. Sounds living, still. Sounds bouyant, sounds light, sound like bubbles, sounds like holy bubbles, sounds like purrs, barks, neighs, chirps, clucks, and baaahs, sounds like the grass of empty fields, like the wind through empty troughs, sounds like the barn kittens headed for your land. Long may the roam.


Golly. I cried a lot, writing that. Shit. I hate this. I just miss them so much. Friday, poem friends.