Summer Nights on Ore Mine Hill Road

by Brett Rutherford

Moths pressed
against the window,
drawn to the light --
or was the random
tapestry of wings
a message --

help us, we choke,
coke-oven smoke
and smelter, fumes
from your rolling autos,
all poison us --

each summer
there were fewer, then
fewer still, now none
as both they and the house
are mere ghosts in the woods.

What were
the nightjars
asking for, anyway?

That same persistent
whip -- whip --
whippoorwill call.

Did respite come
for Poor Will, ever?

What tread at night
as the watch-dog howled,
making a large-pawed
circle around the house?
Grandma slept through it,
but the two boys wide-
awake in terror heard it,
three times circling --

was it a bear
from the high rocks above
or something sinister
that even the Indians
hereabouts
would shudder to name?

What did it want?
What does anything want
in the wide world
but to be left alone?