Caribou: 200 miles north of Fairbanks

                                           

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A Regretful Death

Published in Cirque, Vol. 7, No. 2; 2016 www.cirquejournal.com by  Jerry Dale McDonnell Above the routine of the rasping, cutting sound of the crosscut saw the noise and demeanor of the late-September afternoon woods changed. We didn't immediately quantify the change. We just knew it changed. The odor of standing pine and fir, of sawdust and fresh cut wood, the light dampness of the air, the gurgling water in the creek dancing around rocks all remained, but something had changed. Even the camp robbing Gray jays in the trees were on alert.   Living in the woods, paying attention is just the way of things. Sounds, smells, clouds, the wind, changes in plants and trees, migration and habits of animals are like news on the radio. In the timber-pole corral our lead and riding horses were agitated, which is a blip on the radar. Joker, the smallest, but oldest and wisest horse of the herd snorted, laid its ears back briefly then spun and jumped to the other side of the c
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Glory Royal

Published in Over The Transom #27: February, 2016 by Jerry Dale McDonnell It’s our bar. A day’s end hard work bar with a too recent nod toward tourist hippie/yuppie types. It’s long been my comfort zone where I’ve spent much of my dead-end life and where she found me and took a hold of me and twisted me around. Bras of various cup sizes—donated after the shots and beer back have done their work—hang down from the ceiling like plucked chickens. Twas usually around midnight when the occasional gal pulled her bra out from under her blouse, or if the booze had brought her to stupid, tits were bared. Hooting and hollering of tit bragging and admiration is standard. Two visiting strangers started the collection years ago but now most of the hundred or more hanging bras are from young just turned legal drinking age city girls sometimes escorted by long hairs with unearned holes in their jeans on a weekend toot to our small village in the mountains just shy of Canada. We, a bare knuck
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Chilkoot Spring

Published: http://deadsnakes.blogspot.com/2016/01/jerry-dale-mcdonnell-three-poems.htm                                      by                       Jerry Dale McDonnell After a whiff of spring Snow slipped in. Don't tell anyone the treasure Is still there, lying bare. Yesterday it smelled Like woods’ walking. The martin resting on a log, giving Me a wink, bear awake, ridge riding. Eagle not taking wing as I glide by. The seals have returned to the bays. From the tree top Porcupine faking sad. On this spring day of sundry sun my Skis also seek a fool like me and bide me go. The treasure remains. Someone left the Vault door open for the pauper price of sweat. I will glide and stroke, Avoiding the overflow, Up the Taiya River along the famous Chilkoot Trail where thousands of Fabulous fools brought their quixotic Dreams in a poke leaving a few fingers And toes and lives and hope
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