Three Poems: Leonore Hildebrandt
somewhere the day begins
by sweeping away the shadows with a copper broom
somewhere a man walks dully along while an unsung event in the universe starts shaping futures
some days are like young dogs who bite the hands of those who mean well
somewhere the music unravels a broken cactus limb takes root
a grand success goes unrecorded while a small sorrow meets a larger one
somewhere a vessel fills and overflows a highway narrows into night––
roadside attractions beckon the traveler to turn in––somewhere the day begins
THE WOODS
Neither country nor wilderness––this is woods––impoverished stands of saplings––fir and poplar, impenetrable––but she is young and agile––she climbs up on a boulder, feels the lichens, their bright, brittle patches––there’s a single, large pine with crooked limbs––she doesn’t speak, or hardly ever––the woods are quiet, they offer things––cones, a snake skin, a feather––the girl sometimes cries in her sleep––eyes open––her parents hold and rock her––the house is lit by a single candle––she stares into it––no one talks about the future––but like all mammals, they know winter––the north wind––they can hear the rumble––bulldozers, chippers, trucks––the river is swelling––steadily, insatiable––its sodden banks are caving in––the dog is panting along rabbit and raccoon trails––she may spend all her life in these thickets––but the story wants her to emerge, fingers and mouth stained blue with the juice of blackberries––the story wants them all to sit late into the night bent over maps––taciturn, cautious––determined to find a way.
SONGLINES
The caged animal lives in me––ashamed, abandoned, lost. It sings into existence a world of sky and wind.
The shelter dogs are provided with a blanket and bowls of food and water. Some whimper and wag. Some bark.
Others turn their heads away from our eyes––they might be dreaming of a mythical past. Paths across the land––
the First Nations People of Australia recall songlines, ancient routes of creator-beings whose footprints left large depressions.
A song embodies the land over which it passes––trees and rivers and mountains.
A sign at the wire mesh door says, “Heeler, female, 2 years.”
The dog is pressed against the grate in the back. Nudging her outside, I listen for her story. Gradually she unclenches, grows taller.
A cage for an animal may be called a pen, enclosure, pound, coop, hutch, aviary, corral. To cage is to confine, shut in, lock up, pen, coop up, fence in, immure, impound.
Her ancestors––Australian dingos––would escape captivity by opening latches and door knobs. When I stop on the trail to caress her, she clings to me.
I say, “Good dog.” I say, “I’m sorry.” Back at her cage, I struggle with the latch. Already she has folded herself against the back wall.
Her songlines are waterholes, rocks, hills. In the cover of bush-lands, she finds her pack of dingos. They have sandy-colored coats, large heads, and strong jaws.
