Issue 13
Rock
John A. Ward
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Marmots
We pitch our Coleman tent in an Alpine meadow and canvas whips the guylines with the sounds of frogs barking. Woozer runs free. Woozer is half Golden Retriever, half Rodeo Cowboy, a working dog whose joyful labors look like play. The meadow is full of round rocks, wildflowers and marmots. Woozer believes he is here to herd marmots.
Marmots know the game. They play it with foxes and wolves. A marmot pops up at the far side of the field and whistles. Woozer attacks in full sprint. The marmot disappears underground just as Woozer reaches the hole. Woozer stops. Another marmot across the meadow stands and whoops and Woozer turns and runs that way.
All afternoon, marmots take turns, taunting Woozer to exhaustion. Then they can emerge en masse, march to the prostate Woozer like an army of Lilliputians, bind his muzzle and paws, drag him to the cliff and toss him in the lake, but they never do. They just go back to digging and browsing until Woozer starts stalking again, then they repeat the act.
The choreography of the marmots makes a fool of Woozer. It is a deadly ballet of skill and teamwork. It is their game.
~John A. Ward
John A. Ward was born on Staten Island, attended Wagner College in the early 60's, and sold his first poem to Leatherneck magazine for $10. Website. Email.
© 2003 by John A. Ward. All Rights Reserved.
© Copyright 2003 by Cayuse Press. All Rights Reserved.