Rustlers at Bethlehem Farm by Harry Owen | Poems Rethabile Likes
Rustlers at Bethlehem Farm
by Harry Owen
If the boundary here above Bethlehem
is meant to keep out intruders,
it isn't working.
Having wandered away from the fence line,
we scramble up next to a clicking stream
within a coarse stumble of boulders,
a dry mulch of grasses and brush.
Every few steps we must stop and listen.
The rustlers are here already, scraping
invisibly, shuffling about their own
avian, reptilian, insect business.
Under, through. Over, between. No problem.
This scribbling stream, too, is a rustler—
fluent, yes, but no respecter of fences.
The morning is soft, mild, almost English,
high clouds breaking fitfully
to admit the rustlers' sun
while Old Rocky watches from afar.
Fences will never hold him, or them.
No theft here, no plundering. Only gift.
is meant to keep out intruders,
it isn't working.
Having wandered away from the fence line,
we scramble up next to a clicking stream
within a coarse stumble of boulders,
a dry mulch of grasses and brush.
Every few steps we must stop and listen.
The rustlers are here already, scraping
invisibly, shuffling about their own
avian, reptilian, insect business.
Under, through. Over, between. No problem.
This scribbling stream, too, is a rustler—
fluent, yes, but no respecter of fences.
The morning is soft, mild, almost English,
high clouds breaking fitfully
to admit the rustlers' sun
while Old Rocky watches from afar.
Fences will never hold him, or them.
No theft here, no plundering. Only gift.
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