6/1/1

Caroline Kervin

Word count 347

 

Saltese Flats, Washington

 

 

Vast grasslands, etched by forest, undulate in rolling waves. Mica Peak towers.

Strong winds bend cattails on the lake. A leaf falls; small ripples expand.

Wetlands drain into the Spokane River where in 1858, eight-hundred Palouse

horses were massacred by Colonel Wright, spiritually devastating native people. Time does

not heal wounds that resonate from old bones in the sand.

A Screech Owl pierces the night; luminous clouds drift. The moon glides between

them. Damp rushes exhale ghosts: fog floods the valley floor in a gray shroud of

mourning.

The sun rises: a lasp wisp of mist, memories disappear, lifted by wind and carried

back in time.

White swans bank against the dark mountain, a flash of sunlight on wings. They

run on water and coast to a stop. Graceful wings furl. Curled necks seek

reflections and float by a blue silhouette. A heron poised on one leg, sharp eyes

fixated.

A hatchling turtle paddles down the road. I plunk it in a puddle. Water bugs skate

over bubbles. Last summer, I discovered a hard carapace crushed and left to die. A

shattered under belly of brilliant reds and yellows. Thirty years, cancelled.

Colonel Wright’s legacy prowls the valley.

A large gathering of male deer captures attention. Antlered sculptures promenade.

Massive five-point racks gently joust a two-point challenger. They lower their heads to

graze.

Rifles are loaded, horses saddled up; engines roar: stopped by my implacable will.

This place is my home because I followed brittle shards in a frozen track.

Footprints filled with ice revealed a decapitated pregnant- doe. Half buried in

snow, shrink-wrapped flesh peeled from bristled bone. A fragile skeleton of an

unborn fawn lay encased within a shell of ribs. I picked up a fragment. A tiny

jaw lined with calcium seeds, milk teeth scattered by predators. I replaced

it inside her vanished heart.

Frost bit the tips of my fingers, liquid grief melted snow. I stay because screams

of terrified horses ride the winds of time and are soothed by my

conscience.