The Air of the Present

I was trying to remember some important quipBy a famous person that rang of wisdomOr was prescient, so obviously so that evenIn retrospect we feel brief awe in having bumpedInto what must be an immemorial aphorism.

But, over and over, as the brain muscle flexed,The words of Uncle Lemuel recurred, indeed,Several of them. Watching Wheel of Fortune,Beer in hand, he cleared his throat from that placeWhich only seemed disengaged: "Not mental giants."

My uncle came from a place where horse sense ruled,Where holes in one's shoes was hard but fair,But failing to wear any shoe where the hard stones,The sharp glass, the brutal edge of the real world bruisedWas "That kind of man bleeds stupid."

My aunt, never undone, once stared at him, waiting perhapsFor his timeless remark, finally said, "My feet acheAt attention for your absolute genius." MaybeShe was his muse, so to speak, and this placeWhich took me in on Sundays deserved respect.

Outside, the crows gather among trees nearby,Their number growing for a reason surely;Only yesterday the newborn cardinals vanished,Then the gorgeous pair whose nest grewIn the crape myrtle before the white blossoms

Surged so the slender limbs sagged with the burdenOf summer in their arms. Today the dogs foundThe bones of a hawk-stripped squirrel. I grabbedThe jaws of the black Lab who fought to keep,To swallow, forced them open, made her cough

The treasure sure to choke the sweet beastGone savage with the blood tapped beyondToday's breath I forced shut until the bodyDemanded reversal, rejection so immediateIt was the gagged song of the present.