Crunch of Pumpkin


old Indian trails traced
fields. the nearby ruts of wagons
pushed west
toward the distant mountains, the plains folk
wrapped in blankets watching
desperate pilgrims escape
cities, trading comfort
for pain.

this evening history seems near,
our own straw-covered floor pitching
as rubber wheels roll over earth’s clefts,
our search for orange gourds bringing
laughter to the younger ones
sitting at the edge,
dangling feet toward moving history.

beneath the dry grass
lurk arrowheads and fangs,
mixed together in tumult,
a frenzy of frozen rage,
the pumpkins spurting out
like ruptures
from battle sores
in fields,
the gasps recognized
only for their intensity,
forgotten warriors struggling
with blood in their throats,
ghosts chilling the air.