The Tall Whites

It is said, they come from a star...they say. It is said, they are thin, as a stick...tis said. It is stuck in the craw, of the thick...twas had, that, 'they never existed...anyway.' Well, that about covers it all. Except... what's that ou' yonder, in field...today; that wraith of chalk, of star blue'd eye...no hag, that long of limb, fast flee? Taller, far, than mortal men...would be. She keens her kind, her bird like beak, her dog like bark. She speaks her mind, to mine, thee shee...e'naught of tongue. She'd kill by look...to guard her young. She's not unknown o' friendship...though, right fool she'd be...to trust a man, and yet...who else has she, to stand, alone, out there...that way?

Hail pelt down. Rain drops. Dust howl. Wind scream. "Come know near we!" I hear her say, to heart of heart, as darkened day...consume itself. "You can use the barn. I mean no harm...to your bairn and thee." The wind runs on; nor glimpse of blinded light. Then. Suddenly! She's there! "Why fear you not, my kind?" "I do. I do, white one...fear. No fear of God, were ever more, I fear. Pray, do not strike me." "You have not, to fear...for poet, you are kind. I would take thee home with me. though, poet, you would never know return. A fey, strange thing, would be to thee, to live as thou were born to be...nor, ever death, upon thee...anymore. Would'st that, thou...then, worthy be, of severing here...whatever pain?" "It would, madame. It surely would, nor have I mind to counter thee."

All they found...a cow, in empty field...a calm, a burnt and circled square,,,the fragrance of the Jasmine flower...that's all. No note. No sign. No signature of right or wrong...just gone. Long gone from here, nor one remain to bury for the ground..


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016,  Deming, New Mexico

Art: tall whites.jpg, Google pic