Sanctuary Woods

There was a spot of high ground
Alongside a farm road
Which trailed down from the main drive:
Red dust in the summertime,
Bloody clay in the winter.
At the apex of the road
An old, weathered tobacco barn stood
With the remnants of an old grey silo

One September afternoon, my father, brother and I
Secreted ourselves within the cover of the barn
And aimed the barrels of our twenty twos between the siding
And fired at the dim visage of a brown ground-hog
Sunning himself by his burrow.

A spit of dust in the distance
And it appeared to me that he went down;
My father stepped it off: one hundred fifty paces,
His carcass found its rest in the cistern
Near the farmhouse.

One Summer day, the cousins joined us,
My dad and uncle leading the way,
And a mysterious spirit directed our little hands
To dig in the dirt outside the tall barn doors,
Where we found an ancient arrow point
Left by some Cherokee or Creek brave,
Trudging his sorrowful path from his home in North Georgia
Or the mountains of East Tennessee
To flat prospects in Oklahoma.

As the sun passed over the western fencerows
We could envision their miserable passage,
Walking in silence to the west,
Always to the west,
Until there was no more west:
Their ghosts haunting us from the sound of the breeze
Whistling from the empty darkness of the barn.

From there, the farm road headed off to the south
And abruptly ended at the edge of the dark woods
Where cattle had wandered off to pass on to their final reward,
My brother and I finding the hidden treasure of their bones,
The molars dropping to earth from their massive bleached skulls,
Unexpected jewels, finding their place into our pockets.

My father, brother and I hunted squirrels among the tree branches,
Sitting silently in the sanctuary of the wood
Running alongside the interstate highway,
Which leads from Nashville to Paducah.
The old grey oaks and maples bowed
To the moaning of the Autumn wind,
Waiting for a skitter and squeak to alert us from the trees.

Down that trail, we always found game;
We were always lucky there
When we poked our noses past the barn's shadow
And squinted our gaze down towards the woods,
We were always fortunate to have the opportunity
To creep down past the pond.
Doves, rabbits, squirrels and quail
Finding their way from field to table.

It has been some time since I walked down that trail;
I wonder what I might find today if I took the time
To drive up Highway 24, past the Rossview Road
And walked down the ruts of that blood-red farm road
Down past the shadows of the barns, long since torn down,
On towards the sanctuary of the woods
Or just the shadows of woods from so long ago.

The spirits in the trees
Blow a cool breeze past my temples
Moaning their songs through the shadows of the barn
Long since gone,
Living on in my heart
Haunting my thoughts,
Three hundred miles away
And forty years hence.