It takes a while for the birds to land, though one or two blue sentries are always on the low tumuli of piñon: scrub-jays sensitive to my morning feet the creaking door the crackling of the seed bag or the soft clank of the bucket’s handle on the tub
Sound carries here in sagebrush-juniper above the valley floor a whisper half a mile along our rutted dirt might as well be whispered in the yurt
and so I fill the feeder knowing the unknown wild is watching our Clark’s Nutcracker or the jays and juncos dropping from the Sangres in the fall
dropping from the foothills with the usual messages about time gone and smaller days
I tip out empty husks and peanut shells from the hanging wood and wire of the little platform
there’s already shuffling deep in the otherworld of the bough yet who could tell? they’re still too liminal for me
ghost birds have started their lazy, patient circling around my head weaving a perimeter of sound Pinyon Jays with their uncanny bleating and the whistling of Mourning Doves
though all there is to see is Sis Naajiní on the far horizon catching the eastern light now holding up the sky
our white shell mountain the one initiates climbed to spend the night in shuddering cold greeting the early heavens with an outstretched hand to feed the gods humanity
That’s one dark song lol. Continuing our look at songs from Kat’s collection SnakeweedSeason, we throw a curve at our presenters. They’re usually considering a business use case or supply chain logistics, but here we’ve given them the lyrics to the gritty country tune “Line Crew” based on the poem of the same name. The podcast link is below.
Video hook, “Line Crew”, Kat’s Sundog
The discussion doesn’t back away from the bleak psychology of the narrative, and in following the story, they hit most of the high points, with Glen (not his real name) providing the commentary and Joanna May guiding the discussion.
I came out of the conversation almost apologetic. The poem, from last October, is a look back with a writer’s eye to a nine-year period during which we were evacuated twice from big wildfires in the northern Colorado backcountry and threatened by a third. Homeowners form a particular grateful bond with the firefighters protecting settlements and forest, and they sometimes get a glimpse into the crews’ daily lives, two-week shifts of brutally long days, in conditions that are difficult for most folks to imagine.
What kind of toll does that take? I can’t speak to the accuracy of the story, can’t tell you if a wildland firefighter would recognize what the protagonist thinks and feels. It’s a little slice of gothic horror dressed up in yellow Nomex. Our presenters spend some time with that as well, because while they may be more comfortable with board reports, they don’t miss a trick.
Line Crew (An Outlaw Country song by the band Kat’s Sundog)
Lyrics
[Intro, spoken over a mournful electric guitar riff] You keep from the fire things you can’t name Missed birthdays, an empty home, a poker game And you pass hurt like you pass a hat Cause you can’t fight fire like you fight a man
[Verse 1] We keep from the fire that we won’t be the same Kids’ birthdays, empty houses It’s a losing game Fire says it’s sorry ‘bout my dog Presses his tags in my hand with a burning log Says that ain’t who I am, with a bitter grin A liar in a yellow coat, a restless critter
[Pre-Chorus] Oh, the inferno’s cryin’ black For the houses it consumed But it stalks ‘em like a killer Going room to room
[Chorus] So I work the line, and I hold my ground The taste of ash and sweat in my mouth It’s a devil’s dance where you find some peace Out here among still-livin’ trees Yeah, I work the line
[Verse 2] I keep from the fire our prayers for rain The stone in the creek, the mule deer’s pain But it haunts the ridge with a cruel hot thirst Though the one-horse town it took was the worst It wails like it’s still got a soul to save While it goes back to digging graves
[Pre-Chorus] Oh, the inferno’s cryin’ black For the houses it consumed But it stalks ‘em like a killer Going room to room
[Chorus] So I work the line, and I hold my ground The taste of ash and sweat in my mouth It’s a devil’s dance where you find some peace Out here among still-livin’ trees Yeah, I work the line
[Bridge] But I told that fire where I keep my gun Said, “I’ll never leave ‘til this war’s done” And in the chill before the sun I saw it curled up, weary and worn Like a child, like a red wolf bitch In a den of burning pitch
[Dueling guitars, gritty, soaring]
[Chorus] So I work the line, and I hold my ground The taste of ash and sweat in my mouth It’s a devil’s dance where you find some peace Out here among still-livin’ trees Yeah, I work the line
[Outro, the lone guitar riff from the intro] You keep from the fire You’re no longer the same… Hell, your breath is smoke And your eyes are gone And your godless hands Are wild with flame… [Fade out]
We’re going to do something a little different today and go the podcast route with a look at the poem “Ghost” from last October. Actually, one generation removed from the poem, because the hosts of the discussion are reading from the lyrics of a bluegrass song by Kat’s Sundog based on the poem. The lyrics follow below.
The discussion itself was generated with a Google Notebooks tool, but objections to AI aside, one thing about these tools is clear: chatbots struggle to write a decent poem, but their analysis of poetry is extraordinarily good and sometimes provocative. At the very least, they provide a starting point for further insight.
Here are the song’s lyrics:
Ghost (A traditional bluegrass song by the band Kat’s Sundog)
[Intro, instrumental, slow-paced banjo & fiddle picking, melancholy mandolin, building to a full band entry before settling into verse tempo]
[Verse 1] A trail cam tied to an old pine limb In the cool, thin mountain air Caught a shadow movin’ through the gray Of a cold September day A bobcat, slow n’ easy on her paws A rabbit swinging from her jaws Eight forty-eight in the autumn pines Though the dead ain’t counting time
[Pre-Chorus] And the picture frames what the heart can’t keep The sigh of a soul released We freeze the moment to save the spark Before it fades into the dark
[Chorus] Yeah, we’re keepin’ your ghost here Though you’re long gone Clingin’ to the shade you left Of what’s left here Holding our breath like a hollow Can’t lay you down, can’t follow
[Verse 2] That mountain cottontail swaying The hunter on her pendulum way Through the greasewood and the brush Beast too beautiful to touch Stripes on her haunches in the dimming light Autumn moon makin’ her bright eyes wild Slides through the branches like a work of art Stealing what’s still breathing from my beating heart
[Bridge] Oh, little one, you’re wantin’ to go Where the wild things run and the cold winds blow But babe, give us back his form We’re holdin’ on, we’re holdin’ on
[Instrumental break, fiddle solo over driving banjo]
[Chorus] Yeah, we’re keepin’ your ghost here Though you’re long gone Clingin’ to the shade you left Of what’s left here Holding our breath like a hollow Can’t lay you down, can’t follow
[Outro] Well, she’s carrying the host here We’d love back to livin’ Bringin’ back the heartache we bin given [Fading mandolin]
Find water first.
In the heat, find shade.
Wake early.
Eat late.
Adapt.
Take the high ground
and be quiet about it.
When attacked,
fight tooth and claw.
Wear your skin,
your beautiful skin, unknowing,
and when the sky turns
black as your eyes and the stars
arrange themselves in your image,
disappear.
Leave that counterfeit behind.
Survive,
but failing that
lie down, sleep,
and in your other dreams,
through the creeping shade,
chase self-pity til it falls.
They call it persistence hunting:
chase it running until it falls,
collapses, withers on the bone.
Lie down now and sleep.
The cold will take you.
These things were never meant to last.
I am deliberate, breaking camp.
I draw tent pegs out
like a vet pulling quills from a dog.
I don’t tug at the earth
and she settles shaking on my palm.
I fold the tent with Japanese hands,
making envelopes for her;
I fold long-necked birds that fly up
in the warming updraft of the dew.
I am a clock hand in the desert,
slow and circumspect in the rain,
commanding our tent submarine,
a black watch-cap lookout
soaked through again.
I press air from the sleeping bag,
lying full length, fucking the ground.
We make small fires,
extinguish them with small floods.
We will eat everything eventually,
the rock and the elk —
our edges honed smooth,
we fit like all married pieces,
like all married things:
part given, part owned.
