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The last full moon of February stalks the fields; barbed wire casts a shadow. Rising slowly, a beam moved toward the west stealthily changing position until now, in the small hours, across the snow it advances on my pillow to wake me, not rudely like the sun but with the cocked gun of silence. I am alone in a vast room where a vain woman once slept. The moon, in pale buckskins, crouches on guard beside her bed. Slowly the light wanes, the snow will melt and all the fences thrum in the spring breeze but not until that sleeper, trapped in my body, turns and turns.

Did an argument break out in the kitchen that morning? Was there smashing of pots and pans: you want to eat somewhere else? Go on, get out! Or were they set outside, shrewd,

Early December, dusk, and the sky slips down the rungs of its blue ladder into indigo. A late-quarter moon hangs in the air above the ridge like a broken plate and shines on us all, on the new deputy almost asleep in his four-by-four, lulled by the crackling song of the dispatcher, on the bartender, slowly wiping a glass and racking it, one eye checking the game. It shines down on the fox’s red and grey life, as he stills, a shadow beside someone’s gate, listening to winter. Its pale gaze caresses the lovers, curled together under a quilt, dreaming alone, and shines on the scattered ashes of terrible fires, on the owl’s black flight, on the whelks, on the murmuring kelp, on the whale that washed up six weeks ago at the base of the dunes, and it shines on the backhoe that buried her.

1 Late fall the white fur grew up your spine thick as the tail of a marten. You built up the fire, wrapped your legs with skins, but how that chill wind broke through sill and jamb. We stuffed paper in every crevice — an uncle’s will, the writ that changed your name, a certificate of Degree of Indian Blood and one that said O positive. Still we shivered, your eyes yellow in the lantern’s light. Always, they were out there, in a field of boulders the size of bears hunched over. O, you were silky with fur, with a sharp smell I could not get enough of. I fell into a dream of milk and skin, on the bed of pelts in the winter cabin. When I woke they had taken you or you had gone with them. And didn’t I, so green with sleep, track you the three days until new snow fell? 2 I packed flint and tinder and a compass whose face shines in the lowest light. I learned a song to map the way and one to call you back. I crouched over every footprint, sniffing. And here was a broken branch and here something like hair caught by a bramble. I followed and followed — all the yellow hours, until I came to untouched earth and waited in the clearing for the snow to come down white as the winter blanket you long had wanted. 3 In the spring when you come down hungry from that other mountain the space between one rib and the next deep enough to lay my finger — how much of you will remain or linger — bone or mouth or memory of the first sadness of humans? Will you dig from the crevices the paper where they wrote you down as this instead of that? Or startle at the clatter of plates? The creak of the wooden bed? Will your skin shake off its fur, your claws remember they were fingers? And the hands, meaty as paws, soften into what I once could stroke or suckle?

Now they to their slogged forthwendings tend, four hunters, guns askew like four unruly hairs, to start the rabbit or pheasant from hiding. But these cocks, wily, lie close and spy from covert or culvert the passing grim party and the rabbit keeps Viet-Cong-like to its digs. Here is no hunting horn and gargle of hounds among horse whinny and hoof stamp and ladies in smart hunting habits, though these four sport red in patterns motley or checkered and in hues fluorescent as road crewmen’s vests. Small wonder the game is not game, so uncouthly strikes the eye this drawling troupe of unshaven hope and choler and color. The roadside sparrows, come to dust, scatter before the headlong hum of him leather-crouched, helmet-missled over the speed-stretched oval wheels of his hundred-mile-per-hour crotch rocket all the way to Lone Tree past the six-foot Iowa corn, surprised cows and hogs and the high horse considering gravely over the fence this black burst of boots and gloves and goggles. So the goggle-eyed frog dives under a scum of ditch-vetched water fern and the blue-backed kestrel stoops from its crystal insulator perch and, gray as a piece of the paving, up springs the four-inch grasshopper splat! like a nicotine bullet in the teeth. Bearded buggy dads on their way to market, fine trotters high-stepping between shafts, broad-brim-hatted, blue-chambray-shirted, with black pants and black suspenders, sons like scrubbed minor replicas, dutiful daughters, eyes downcast among chatter of bonneted grannies and mothers, patriarchal grandfathers observing that rain must come as it always has, God’s will be done, and brief gossip also among the elders of shunning a deacon caught in unnatural circumstances with a pig—the Devil’s own vessel!—and of Sister Sara, who’s soon to require the midwife, as the moon too is full almost.

The unicorn is an easy prey: its horn in the maiden’s lap is an obvious twist, a tamed figure—like the hawk that once roamed free, but sits now, fat and hooded, squawking on the hunter’s wrist. It’s easy to catch what no longer captures the mind, long since woven in, a faded tapestry on a crumbling wall made by the women who wore keys at their waists and in their sleep came hot dreams of wounded knights left bleeding in their care, who would wake the next morning groaning from the leftover lance in the groin, look up into the round blond face beaming down at them thinking "mine," and say: "angel." Such beasts are easy to catch; their dreams betray them. But the hard prey is the one that won’t come bidden. By these signs you will know it: when you lift your lure out of the water, the long plastic line will be missing its end: the lure and the hook will be gone, and the line will swing free in the air, so light it will be without bait or its cunning sharp curl of silver. Or when you pull your net from the stream, it will be eaten as if by acid, its fine mesh sodden shreds. Or when you go at dawn to check your traps, their great metal jaws will be wrenched open, the teeth blunt with rust as if they had lain for years in the rain. Or when the thunderstorm suddenly breaks in the summer, next morning the computer’s memory will be blank. Look then for the blank card, the sprung trap, the net’s dissolve, the unburdened line that swings free in the air. There. By day, go empty-handed to the hunt and come home the same way in the dark.

Fit the First The Landing "Just the place for a Snark!" the Bellman cried, As he landed his crew with care; Supporting each man on the top of the tide By a finger entwined in his hair. "Just the place for a Snark! I have said it twice: That alone should encourage the crew. Just the place for a Snark! I have said it thrice: What I tell you three times is true." The crew was complete: it included a Boots— A maker of Bonnets and Hoods— A Barrister, brought to arrange their disputes— And a Broker, to value their goods. A Billiard-marker, whose skill was immense, Might perhaps have won more than his share— But a Banker, engaged at enormous expense, Had the whole of their cash in his care. There was also a Beaver, that paced on the deck, Or would sit making lace in the bow: And had often (the Bellman said) saved them from wreck, Though none of the sailors knew how. There was one who was famed for the number of things He forgot when he entered the ship: His umbrella, his watch, all his jewels and rings, And the clothes he had bought for the trip. He had forty-two boxes, all carefully packed, With his name painted clearly on each: But, since he omitted to mention the fact, They were all left behind on the beach. The loss of his clothes hardly mattered, because He had seven coats on when he came, With three pair of boots—but the worst of it was, He had wholly forgotten his name. He would answer to "Hi!" or to any loud cry, Such as "Fry me!" or "Fritter my wig!" To "What-you-may-call-um!" or "What-was-his-name!" But especially "Thing-um-a-jig!" While, for those who preferred a more forcible word, He had different names from these: His intimate friends called him "Candle-ends," And his enemies "Toasted-cheese." "His form is ungainly—his intellect small—" (So the Bellman would often remark) "But his courage is perfect! And that, after all, Is the thing that one needs with a Snark." He would joke with hænas, returning their stare With an impudent wag of the head: And he once went a walk, paw-in-paw, with a bear, "Just to keep up its spirits," he said. He came as a Baker: but owned, when too late— And it drove the poor Bellman half-mad— He could only bake Bride-cake—for which, I may state, No materials were to be had. The last of the crew needs especial remark, Though he looked an incredible dunce: He had just one idea—but, that one being "Snark," The good Bellman engaged him at once. He came as a Butcher: but gravely declared, When the ship had been sailing a week, He could only kill Beavers. The Bellman looked scared, And was almost too frightened to speak: But at length he explained, in a tremulous tone, There was only one Beaver on board; And that was a tame one he had of his own, Whose death would be deeply deplored. The Beaver, who happened to hear the remark, Protested, with tears in its eyes, That not even the rapture of hunting the Snark Could atone for that dismal surprise! It strongly advised that the Butcher should be Conveyed in a separate ship: But the Bellman declared that would never agree With the plans he had made for the trip: Navigation was always a difficult art, Though with only one ship and one bell: And he feared he must really decline, for his part, Undertaking another as well. The Beaver's best course was, no doubt, to procure A second-hand dagger-proof coat— So the Baker advised it—and next, to insure Its life in some Office of note: This the Banker suggested, and offered for hire (On moderate terms), or for sale, Two excellent Policies, one Against Fire, And one Against Damage From Hail. Yet still, ever after that sorrowful day, Whenever the Butcher was by, The Beaver kept looking the opposite way, And appeared unaccountably shy. Fit the Second The Bellman's Speech The Bellman himself they all praised to the skies— Such a carriage, such ease and such grace! Such solemnity, too! One could see he was wise, The moment one looked in his face! He had bought a large map representing the sea, Without the least vestige of land: And the crew were much pleased when they found it to be A map they could all understand. "What's the good of Mercator's North Poles and Equators, Tropics, Zones, and Meridian Lines?" So the Bellman would cry: and the crew would reply "They are merely conventional signs! "Other maps are such shapes, with their islands and capes! But we've got our brave Captain to thank (So the crew would protest) "that he's bought us the best— A perfect and absolute blank!" This was charming, no doubt; but they shortly found out That the Captain they trusted so well Had only one notion for crossing the ocean, And that was to tingle his bell. He was thoughtful and grave—but the orders he gave Were enough to bewilder a crew. When he cried "Steer to starboard, but keep her head larboard!" What on earth was the helmsman to do? Then the bowsprit got mixed with the rudder sometimes: A thing, as the Bellman remarked, That frequently happens in tropical climes, When a vessel is, so to speak, "snarked." But the principal failing occurred in the sailing, And the Bellman, perplexed and distressed, Said he had hoped, at least, when the wind blew due East, That the ship would not travel due West! But the danger was past—they had landed at last, With their boxes, portmanteaus, and bags: Yet at first sight the crew were not pleased with the view, Which consisted to chasms and crags. The Bellman perceived that their spirits were low, And repeated in musical tone Some jokes he had kept for a season of woe— But the crew would do nothing but groan. He served out some grog with a liberal hand, And bade them sit down on the beach: And they could not but own that their Captain looked grand, As he stood and delivered his speech. "Friends, Romans, and countrymen, lend me your ears!" (They were all of them fond of quotations: So they drank to his health, and they gave him three cheers, While he served out additional rations). "We have sailed many months, we have sailed many weeks, (Four weeks to the month you may mark), But never as yet ('tis your Captain who speaks) Have we caught the least glimpse of a Snark! "We have sailed many weeks, we have sailed many days, (Seven days to the week I allow), But a Snark, on the which we might lovingly gaze, We have never beheld till now! "Come, listen, my men, while I tell you again The five unmistakable marks By which you may know, wheresoever you go, The warranted genuine Snarks. "Let us take them in order. The first is the taste, Which is meagre and hollow, but crisp: Like a coat that is rather too tight in the waist, With a flavour of Will-o'-the-wisp. "Its habit of getting up late you'll agree That it carries too far, when I say That it frequently breakfasts at five-o'clock tea, And dines on the following day. "The third is its slowness in taking a jest. Should you happen to venture on one, It will sigh like a thing that is deeply distressed: And it always looks grave at a pun. "The fourth is its fondness for bathing-machines, Which it constantly carries about, And believes that they add to the beauty of scenes— A sentiment open to doubt. "The fifth is ambition. It next will be right To describe each particular batch: Distinguishing those that have feathers, and bite, From those that have whiskers, and scratch. "For, although common Snarks do no manner of harm, Yet, I feel it my duty to say, Some are Boojums—" The Bellman broke off in alarm, For the Baker had fainted away. Fit the Third The Baker's Tale They roused him with muffins—they roused him with ice— They roused him with mustard and cress— They roused him with jam and judicious advice— They set him conundrums to guess. When at length he sat up and was able to speak, His sad story he offered to tell; And the Bellman cried "Silence! Not even a shriek!" And excitedly tingled his bell. There was silence supreme! Not a shriek, not a scream, Scarcely even a howl or a groan, As the man they called "Ho!" told his story of woe In an antediluvian tone. "My father and mother were honest, though poor—" "Skip all that!" cried the Bellman in haste. "If it once becomes dark, there's no chance of a Snark— We have hardly a minute to waste!" "I skip forty years," said the Baker, in tears, "And proceed without further remark To the day when you took me aboard of your ship To help you in hunting the Snark. "A dear uncle of mine (after whom I was named) Remarked, when I bade him farewell—" "Oh, skip your dear uncle!" the Bellman exclaimed, As he angrily tingled his bell. "He remarked to me then," said that mildest of men, "'If your Snark be a Snark, that is right: Fetch it home by all means—you may serve it with greens, And it's handy for striking a light. "'You may seek it with thimbles—and seek it with care; You may hunt it with forks and hope; You may threaten its life with a railway-share; You may charm it with smiles and soap—'" ("That's exactly the method," the Bellman bold In a hasty parenthesis cried, "That's exactly the way I have always been told That the capture of Snarks should be tried!") "'But oh, beamish nephew, beware of the day, If your Snark be a Boojum! For then You will softly and suddenly vanish away, And never be met with again!' "It is this, it is this that oppresses my soul, When I think of my uncle's last words: And my heart is like nothing so much as a bowl Brimming over with quivering curds! "It is this, it is this—" "We have had that before!" The Bellman indignantly said. And the Baker replied "Let me say it once more. It is this, it is this that I dread! "I engage with the Snark—every night after dark— In a dreamy delirious fight: I serve it with greens in those shadowy scenes, And I use it for striking a light: "But if ever I meet with a Boojum, that day, In a moment (of this I am sure), I shall softly and suddenly vanish away— And the notion I cannot endure!" Fit the Fourth The Hunting The Bellman looked uffish, and wrinkled his brow. "If only you'd spoken before! It's excessively awkward to mention it now, With the Snark, so to speak, at the door! "We should all of us grieve, as you well may believe, If you never were met with again— But surely, my man, when the voyage began, You might have suggested it then? "It's excessively awkward to mention it now— As I think I've already remarked." And the man they called "Hi!" replied, with a sigh, "I informed you the day we embarked. "You may charge me with murder—or want of sense— (We are all of us weak at times): But the slightest approach to a false pretence Was never among my crimes! "I said it in Hebrew—I said it in Dutch— I said it in German and Greek: But I wholly forgot (and it vexes me much) That English is what you speak!" "'Tis a pitiful tale," said the Bellman, whose face Had grown longer at every word: "But, now that you've stated the whole of your case, More debate would be simply absurd. "The rest of my speech" (he explained to his men) "You shall hear when I've leisure to speak it. But the Snark is at hand, let me tell you again! 'Tis your glorious duty to seek it! "To seek it with thimbles, to seek it with care; To pursue it with forks and hope; To threaten its life with a railway-share; To charm it with smiles and soap! "For the Snark's a peculiar creature, that won't Be caught in a commonplace way. Do all that you know, and try all that you don't: Not a chance must be wasted to-day! "For England expects—I forbear to proceed: 'Tis a maxim tremendous, but trite: And you'd best be unpacking the things that you need To rig yourselves out for the fight." Then the Banker endorsed a blank check (which he crossed), And changed his loose silver for notes. The Baker with care combed his whiskers and hair, And shook the dust out of his coats. The Boots and the Broker were sharpening a spade— Each working the grindstone in turn: But the Beaver went on making lace, and displayed No interest in the concern: Though the Barrister tried to appeal to its pride, And vainly proceeded to cite A number of cases, in which making laces Had been proved an infringement of right. The maker of Bonnets ferociously planned A novel arrangement of bows: While the Billiard-marker with quivering hand Was chalking the tip of his nose. But the Butcher turned nervous, and dressed himself fine, With yellow kid gloves and a ruff— Said he felt it exactly like going to dine, Which the Bellman declared was all "stuff." "Introduce me, now there's a good fellow," he said, "If we happen to meet it together!" And the Bellman, sagaciously nodding his head, Said "That must depend on the weather." The Beaver went simply galumphing about, At seeing the Butcher so shy: And even the Baker, though stupid and stout, Made an effort to wink with one eye. "Be a man!" said the Bellman in wrath, as he heard The Butcher beginning to sob. "Should we meet with a Jubjub, that desperate bird, We shall need all our strength for the job!" Fit the Fifth The Beaver's Lesson They sought it with thimbles, they sought it with care; They pursued it with forks and hope; They threatened its life with a railway-share; They charmed it with smiles and soap. Then the Butcher contrived an ingenious plan For making a separate sally; And had fixed on a spot unfrequented by man, A dismal and desolate valley. But the very same plan to the Beaver occurred: It had chosen the very same place: Yet neither betrayed, by a sign or a word, The disgust that appeared in his face. Each thought he was thinking of nothing but "Snark" And the glorious work of the day; And each tried to pretend that he did not remark That the other was going that way. But the valley grew narrow and narrower still, And the evening got darker and colder, Till (merely from nervousness, not from good will) They marched along shoulder to shoulder. Then a scream, shrill and high, rent the shuddering sky, And they knew that some danger was near: The Beaver turned pale to the tip of its tail, And even the Butcher felt queer. He thought of his childhood, left far far behind— That blissful and innocent state— The sound so exactly recalled to his mind A pencil that squeaks on a slate! "'Tis the voice of the Jubjub!" he suddenly cried. (This man, that they used to call "Dunce.") "As the Bellman would tell you," he added with pride, "I have uttered that sentiment once. "'Tis the note of the Jubjub! Keep count, I entreat; You will find I have told it you twice. Tis the song of the Jubjub! The proof is complete, If only I've stated it thrice." The Beaver had counted with scrupulous care, Attending to every word: But it fairly lost heart, and outgrabe in despair, When the third repetition occurred. It felt that, in spite of all possible pains, It had somehow contrived to lose count, And the only thing now was to rack its poor brains By reckoning up the amount. "Two added to one—if that could but be done," It said, "with one's fingers and thumbs!" Recollecting with tears how, in earlier years, It had taken no pains with its sums. "The thing can be done," said the Butcher, "I think. The thing must be done, I am sure. The thing shall be done! Bring me paper and ink, The best there is time to procure." The Beaver brought paper, portfolio, pens, And ink in unfailing supplies: While strange creepy creatures came out of their dens, And watched them with wondering eyes. So engrossed was the Butcher, he heeded them not, As he wrote with a pen in each hand, And explained all the while in a popular style Which the Beaver could well understand. "Taking Three as the subject to reason about— A convenient number to state— We add Seven, and Ten, and then multiply out By One Thousand diminished by Eight. "The result we proceed to divide, as you see, By Nine Hundred and Ninety and Two: Then subtract Seventeen, and the answer must be Exactly and perfectly true. "The method employed I would gladly explain, While I have it so clear in my head, If I had but the time and you had but the brain— But much yet remains to be said. "In one moment I've seen what has hitherto been Enveloped in absolute mystery, And without extra charge I will give you at large A Lesson in Natural History." In his genial way he proceeded to say (Forgetting all laws of propriety, And that giving instruction, without introduction, Would have caused quite a thrill in Society), "As to temper the Jubjub's a desperate bird, Since it lives in perpetual passion: Its taste in costume is entirely absurd— It is ages ahead of the fashion: "But it knows any friend it has met once before: It never will look at a bribe: And in charity-meetings it stands at the door, And collects—though it does not subscribe. "Its flavour when cooked is more exquisite far Than mutton, or oysters, or eggs: (Some think it keeps best in an ivory jar, And some, in mahogany kegs:) "You boil it in sawdust: you salt it in glue: You condense it with locusts and tape: Still keeping one principal object in view— To preserve its symmetrical shape." The Butcher would gladly have talked till next day, But he felt that the Lesson must end, And he wept with delight in attempting to say He considered the Beaver his friend. While the Beaver confessed, with affectionate looks More eloquent even than tears, It had learned in ten minutes far more than all books Would have taught it in seventy years. They returned hand-in-hand, and the Bellman, unmanned (For a moment) with noble emotion, Said "This amply repays all the wearisome days We have spent on the billowy ocean!" Such friends, as the Beaver and Butcher became, Have seldom if ever been known; In winter or summer, 'twas always the same— You could never meet either alone. And when quarrels arose—as one frequently finds Quarrels will, spite of every endeavour— The song of the Jubjub recurred to their minds, And cemented their friendship for ever! Fit the Sixth The Barrister's Dream They sought it with thimbles, they sought it with care; They pursued it with forks and hope; They threatened its life with a railway-share; They charmed it with smiles and soap. But the Barrister, weary of proving in vain That the Beaver's lace-making was wrong, Fell asleep, and in dreams saw the creature quite plain That his fancy had dwelt on so long. He dreamed that he stood in a shadowy Court, Where the Snark, with a glass in its eye, Dressed in gown, bands, and wig, was defending a pig On the charge of deserting its sty. The Witnesses proved, without error or flaw, That the sty was deserted when found: And the Judge kept explaining the state of the law In a soft under-current of sound. The indictment had never been clearly expressed, And it seemed that the Snark had begun, And had spoken three hours, before any one guessed What the pig was supposed to have done. The Jury had each formed a different view (Long before the indictment was read), And they all spoke at once, so that none of them knew One word that the others had said. "You must know—" said the Judge: but the Snark exclaimed "Fudge!" That statute is obsolete quite! Let me tell you, my friends, the whole question depends On an ancient manorial right. "In the matter of Treason the pig would appear To have aided, but scarcely abetted: While the charge of Insolvency fails, it is clear, If you grant the plea 'never indebted.' "The fact of Desertion I will not dispute; But its guilt, as I trust, is removed (So far as relates to the costs of this suit) By the Alibi which has been proved. "My poor client's fate now depends on your votes." Here the speaker sat down in his place, And directed the Judge to refer to his notes And briefly to sum up the case. But the Judge said he never had summed up before; So the Snark undertook it instead, And summed it so well that it came to far more Than the Witnesses ever had said! When the verdict was called for, the Jury declined, As the word was so puzzling to spell; But they ventured to hope that the Snark wouldn't mind Undertaking that duty as well. So the Snark found the verdict, although, as it owned, It was spent with the toils of the day: When it said the word "GUILTY!" the Jury all groaned, And some of them fainted away. Then the Snark pronounced sentence, the Judge being quite Too nervous to utter a word: When it rose to its feet, there was silence like night, And the fall of a pin might be heard. "Transportation for life" was the sentence it gave, "And then to be fined forty pound." The Jury all cheered, though the Judge said he feared That the phrase was not legally sound. But their wild exultation was suddenly checked When the jailer informed them, with tears, Such a sentence would have not the slightest effect, As the pig had been dead for some years. The Judge left the Court, looking deeply disgusted: But the Snark, though a little aghast, As the lawyer to whom the defence was intrusted, Went bellowing on to the last. Thus the Barrister dreamed, while the bellowing seemed To grow every moment more clear: Till he woke to the knell of a furious bell, Which the Bellman rang close at his ear. Fit the Seventh The Banker's Fate They sought it with thimbles, they sought it with care; They pursued it with forks and hope; They threatened its life with a railway-share; They charmed it with smiles and soap. And the Banker, inspired with a courage so new It was matter for general remark, Rushed madly ahead and was lost to their view In his zeal to discover the Snark But while he was seeking with thimbles and care, A Bandersnatch swiftly drew nigh And grabbed at the Banker, who shrieked in despair, For he knew it was useless to fly. He offered large discount—he offered a cheque (Drawn "to bearer") for seven-pounds-ten: But the Bandersnatch merely extended its neck And grabbed at the Banker again. Without rest or pause—while those frumious jaws Went savagely snapping around— He skipped and he hopped, and he floundered and flopped, Till fainting he fell to the ground. The Bandersnatch fled as the others appeared Led on by that fear-stricken yell: And the Bellman remarked "It is just as I feared!" And solemnly tolled on his bell. He was black in the face, and they scarcely could trace The least likeness to what he had been: While so great was his fright that his waistcoat turned white— A wonderful thing to be seen! To the horror of all who were present that day, He uprose in full evening dress, And with senseless grimaces endeavoured to say What his tongue could no longer express. Down he sank in a chair—ran his hands through his hair— And chanted in mimsiest tones Words whose utter inanity proved his insanity, While he rattled a couple of bones. "Leave him here to his fate—it is getting so late!" The Bellman exclaimed in a fright. "We have lost half the day. Any further delay, And we sha'n't catch a Snark before night!" Fit the Eighth The Vanishing They sought it with thimbles, they sought it with care; They pursued it with forks and hope; They threatened its life with a railway-share; They charmed it with smiles and soap. They shuddered to think that the chase might fail, And the Beaver, excited at last, Went bounding along on the tip of its tail, For the daylight was nearly past. "There is Thingumbob shouting!" the Bellman said, "He is shouting like mad, only hark! He is waving his hands, he is wagging his head, He has certainly found a Snark!" They gazed in delight, while the Butcher exclaimed "He was always a desperate wag!" They beheld him—their Baker—their hero unnamed— On the top of a neighbouring crag, Erect and sublime, for one moment of time, In the next, that wild figure they saw (As if stung by a spasm) plunge into a chasm, While they waited and listened in awe. "It's a Snark!" was the sound that first came to their ears, And seemed almost too good to be true. Then followed a torrent of laughter and cheers: Then the ominous words "It's a Boo—" Then, silence. Some fancied they heard in the air A weary and wandering sigh That sounded like "-jum!" but the others declare It was only a breeze that went by. They hunted till darkness came on, but they found Not a button, or feather, or mark, By which they could tell that they stood on the ground Where the Baker had met with the Snark. In the midst of the word he was trying to say, In the midst of his laughter and glee, He had softly and suddenly vanished away— For the Snark was a Boojum, you see.

His hand in hold so trigger-tight its blood believes in ghosts. It clings with finger set on steel and waits inside a dream of ducks. The twilight burns into a rising arc of eastern sky as sun reveals herself too proud and instantly receives full-face a splash of mallard flock. A shotgun blasts the yellow into streaming pinks and gives the creek its new-day taste of echoed blood. Two green head ghosts fly through the pulse of dawn upon a trigger’s touch. The creek empties of sound. In silence human fingers find wet feet of web and carry in each hand a bird whose only cry comes in color.

There’s a spirit in me that admits no weakness. Is it the best of me or worst? Cow daisies burn their stars into the stalled air of pastures. No one else cares whether they’ll last. I shirk the sick and go out to pick flowers, Bushels of the tough and prickly-legged, Whichever I can pull out of the gulch, And push them into thunder-pitchers. An invalid in a peignoir pulls the covers over her head In the high cherry bed great-grandmother had made To match the chest of drawers. Solitudes gather under the Beau D’arc. I ache for the meanness, the glorious meanness That knocked croquet balls into its soft meal trunk, To hear the thwack of that mallet, To be it, as it cleanly cracks and lets the other ball be gone. Acquisitive gall made my people call themselves victorious. They thought they won the Mexican War, among others. One ancestor drove his bayonet into the dirt when he returned — This tree is what took root and bloomed, Though Beau D’arcs grow complex in illness. The locusts have chewed its thatch into fretwork, Its leaves fluted crisp, poxed yellowish, kissed by the worm. Huptemugs believed that train rides to the capital to hear Charlemagne singing Franz would cure the soul (As venison is cured) against life’s turmoil — They could not tolerate complaints of the feet, Corns and hammertoes, evidence of rot. If generous you might have called us committed to transcendence, Though who that ever fought her way into an opera box Ever let the arias consign her to a fate of constant care? There is a spirit in me that admits no weakness. When it sings, the rest of me despairs.

We stop at the dry cleaners and the grocery store and the gas station and the green market and Hurry up honey, I say, hurry, as she runs along two or three steps behind me her blue jacket unzipped and her socks rolled down. Where do I want her to hurry to? To her grave? To mine? Where one day she might stand all grown? Today, when all the errands are finally done, I say to her, Honey I'm sorry I keep saying Hurry— you walk ahead of me. You be the mother. And, Hurry up, she says, over her shoulder, looking back at me, laughing. Hurry up now darling, she says, hurry, hurry, taking the house keys from my hands.