the buffalo

some rainy, foggy, chilly midweek

when secretaries call in sick
and postmen wear goulashes
go to the zoo and take in what’s left

splash along the water-covered concrete
past occasional trees bent, looking away
from the wind’s lick

see the muddy, mucky, peanut-shelled patch
where there stands the buffalo
knee-deep, with dirty, unkempt, matted hair
his eyelids closing out the drizzle
shoulders that held up america

clothed the indians in a montana mountain snow
fed starving wagoneers not quite to the promised land
mark of the plains
symbol of an era

it is fitting that he be visited
for his eyelids are closing now, america

ringing

my ears ring in the quiet.
i have to think to notice.
you'd say it is not possible
to hear what isn't.

i must occur to me
before i notice the space;
the lack of audio.
that's ear ringing.

now, where are the tapping woodpeckers.
there is wood enough.
perhaps it is a season when they tap more.
this is worth a lifetime of study.