Rustlers at Bethlehem Farm

Rustlers at Bethlehem Farm

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.

Poet: Harry Owen
Source: New Contrast
Books: @AbeBooks

Every few steps we must stop and listen

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