Buster and Quinn

My Uncle Buster's died. He, with my dad,
Who's also dead, exemplified a way of life
Which I could see, but never know.
Depression boys, the equals of the mountain
Goats up on the cliffs, they wrestled teams
Of horses hauling logs. They lived through
Nine-month winters high up in their
Rockies home. Old pictures show a natty
Pair, in suits, beside a bulbous car, with
Horn-rimmed girls next to them, with elk
They'd killed in bloody snow, in uniforms.
They went to war, my dad out in the
Philippines, but not in combat. Buster
Hunted Germans as he'd hunted elk,
At least, that's what we thought he did.
He wouldn't say, and, afterward, my dad
Attended college, took a job out on the coast,
And tried to live a softer life. He couldn't.
He would take us, every weekend,
To the mountains, to the roaring streams,
To be beneath the pines which substituted
For the aspens and the spruce he knew.
Buster never left again. He stayed inside
The family home, and made a living
Dynamiting rocks above the timber line,
And, when the two of them retired, my
Dad came back to the home, and he and
Buster fished and hunted, latter-day
Depression boys, until they got too feeble.
Then they sat and talked until they died.
The mountain goats have left their cliff.
The elk are safer. Lesser men now haul
Away the logs. They sit in trucks.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 51 times
Written on 2010-05-28 at 15:02

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