Woodchuck, and: Labor Day

Abstract

Woodchuck, and: Labor Day George Perreault (bio) WOODCHUCK Late June clatter of sickle bars, then, if the farmer'sbones are true, three days while timothy's dryingin windrows, two more before the baling is done,flatbeds roaming hobnailed fields while barns waitempty, dust rising like prayers, the true stained glassof those quickened years when that dark harboredangels, emptied burlap the streets of paradise. Stubble filled with slim snakes and threadbare micestartled into light, exposed but let be, though beforea second crop greened and grew, came a slow searchfor signs of woodchucks, burrows into which smokebombs were dropped, entrances sealed with dirt overflattened feed sacks as we scanned for other exitswe could pour a deadly mix, bleach and ammonia. Tonight I could conjure, deep beneath the loam, cozylives and families, invent signs and stories, intermingledkingdoms, mammal and more, contemplate enlightenedecologies, entertain folk predictions for lengthy winters,but instead unearth one afternoon: my brother drivingthe '43 Ford, a wealth of bales I'd stacked on back asnewer boys tossed them up, a jig-sawed balance of capacity and stability which cut trips to the barn and yetensured that nothing fell, no snapped twine or spread hayalong the roadside, when into this pastoral stumbles,stout and furred, a target for a truck-armed teen, and sobegins a frantic chase across the field, sharp twists andunpredictable turns long minutes before the woodchuckscambles to safety, and my brother dismounts to survey [End Page 106] whatever wreckage has ensued, stands astonished: Goddamn, we didn't lose a single bale—hell of a job there,while the whole crew clambers aboard so we can headoff to the barn, then on to baseball, just like in the movies, all of us lean and tanned, immortal and god blessedunder elms and pines and blackbirds, over the sunlitbrook, our load of golden bales solid as bullion. [End Page 107] LABOR DAY dry white stalksbend stiffly intothe dregs of summeras muted birds,finches mostly— some sparrows—side-step towardseed heads, reapingthe cone flowers, shastadaisies, black-eyed susans, rummaginginside a lavendertill the whole bushshakes its come-onfar and wide, and if you'd sit with me afew, the breezefreshening now asit slips down thefoothills—just a while— we're given this dayand maybe the next,hollow-boned birdsworking the harvest—come, catch your breath [End Page 108] George Perreault George Perreault's poems have been nominated three times for the Pushcart Prize and selected for sixteen anthologies and dozens of journals. His recent work appears in The American Journal of Poetry, Split Rock Review, Timberline Review, and South 85 Journal. Copyright © 2019 Berea College