...from The Alfalfa Chronicles: in which we take an imaginary drive around the West to visit some small towns and rural areas. This is not San Francisco or Los Angeles, or even Portland or Denver. These are views far from the interstates, off the beaten track. I drive and camp alone, to better soak up the feeling of being far away.


The Time of Alfalfa


I sleep next to a round alfalfa field
watered by a giant circular boom
turning slowly night and day

the clock turns in the empty house
a week before it winds down,
quiet finally, no one home to notice

the soft spray of water passed me
after midnight, one whole revolution
requires three marked days

the long pendulum hangs in the forum
of the museum swinging imperceptibly
in a giant arc striking perfectly set
pins on the hour— daily, weekly

if you looked from the sky I'm at
10 PM or 4 AM, unsure of the time

a child wakes crying soon after being
settled, mother washing her face
must go to soothe, leads the girl
to the bathroom, holds her hand

the deer follow their own paths grazing
delicately before the sprinklers arrive
twitch if the water touches their soft
brown backs warm in the afternoon

an old man wakes well before dawn
turns on the light, sighs and takes up
his book— one short story for now, props
up both pillows, thinks of her as always

in the morning the boom is past
the long ears of the deer in the grass
flick as I rise, the field damp, time
forgotten between 6 AM and winter.