bonepickers

bonepickersraccoon claviclephalange of doginterlaced with lichen, its own russian doll"we're archaeologists here" he tells medropping our finds into a leather bagwhich he carries on his hipboth our sweaters heavy with burrswe emergefrom the wildernesstrudge over moss and onion greenswe leap, uncut by thornssun lies, reflected, in a punctured Bud Light canwe tip it carefullyknowing still water harbors mosquitos—we are good stewards of this little woodthis ravine, this gutted meat betweenhighway and ranchthe red earth bleeds, and beneath it, likegrapes of infection welling inside cuts, we findthe white pebbles and bones which growat the end of every winter,churned up by the rainraccoon teeth aplenty.two years later he will drown, not half a mile from hereand I will not go to his funeral                    (I dreamed his death already)I will always be waiting for him to springfull-formed, out of the red soil,at the end of every winter.