Woodsmoke. Wayne Caldwell

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      Pisgah

      1

      I’ve always lived in sight of Pisgah’s crown,

      Ten or twelve crowback miles from Pole Creek,

      The peak a steadfast anchor for my soul.

      Twixt here and there green folds of South Hominy’s

      Story feel like old friends shadowed by the mountain.

      It’s stout, worthy, tall by more’n a mile.

      The rock face halfway up they call the bride and groom,

      Who after deep snow look pleased as punch to marry.

      Two peaks to its left a rat sneaks up the ridge.

      A rub-lamped genie could conjure up no better sight

      To greet an old man’s eyes at one more weary dawn.

      2

      Mister Vanderbilt used to own it. Or at least had a deed,

      As if a mere man, even a tycoon, could own such godly land.

      Built Buck Spring Lodge, where blueblood guests

      Killed deer and bear and buffalo and made their servants

      Cook and serve it. I peeked in there as a young’un,

      You could set a T-model Ford in the fireplace,

      And a bearskin rug looked fit to eat you alive.

      Did I say buffalo? Around here? Well, Papa told it,

      How Mister Vanderbilt ordered half a dozen,

      Male and female, three of each from way out west,

      For he thought money cured all ills, even buffalo drought.

      I was at Hominy station when them things come off the train.

      Big old wooden crates a-snorting and a-grunting and a-growling

      Like something inside itched to kill something outside.

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