The Hour of Mice and Deer



(photo by J. Martin Ward)



Nearly a decade ago I became friends with a US Army Medic who was serving in Iraq.  Upon returning to the States, he found it hard to adjust to life outside of a war zone.  He was haunted by memories of patrols and the loss of two comrades.  He had anger and regret with no place to put them.  Not surprisingly, he had a few run-ins with Johnny Law and spent several months in jail on an assault charge. 

It was during this time that we became true penpals.  Envelopes flew back and forth between us, letters full of stories and news and games. One letter cautioned that I was to read it outside, atop something high, under a full moon, late at night.  And so I did.  On a clear February night in temperatures below zero, I nipped outside at three in the morning, clambered atop the cab of a pick-up truck in the yard and read the letter.

I don't remember what was in it now, probably lots of laughter from the writer imagining me gullible enough to be out in the freezing cold following his whim. But I will never forget the stillness and incredible beauty of moonlight on snow and the words of someone reaching out to me across so many miles and experiences.

When I crawled back into bed, I found I couldn't sleep. I needed to make my own homage to what had happend and thus wrote this poem:

The Hour of Mice and Deer

I was awake’d at 3 AM,

Nocturnal musings from a pen

Calling me from slumbers deep

To answer riddles, hide and seek.

The full moon on the patient snow,

The stars above, the cold below.

No gloves of wool, nor hat of fleece,

In my own house I was a thief.

Stealing glances, listening hard,

I moved as dust into the yard.

The door behind me gently closed;

The sting of night at 3 below.

Yellow paper, man-made light,

A silent witness in the night,

Instructions in a reckless hand,

Un compos mentos rewards the man.

Clear, cool nights inspire the mind,

We gaze amazed at what we find.

We came together seeking knowledge

And in the process found our solace.

Here, my view is open spaces,

The heart recalls what time erases.

There, your view is no less grand,

Despite the concrete walls at hand.

Your jailers cannot even see,

They are the captives, you are the free.

Words of lead upon a page,

Redemption as the battles rage.

The moon, her silent vigil kept.

I read your words. I thought. I wept.

For only you could bid me here,

In the wee hours of mice and deer.

There is a sound that snow possesses

When the temperature regresses.

It leaves its mark upon the soul

Of those of us born to the cold.

Imprinted with this icy brand,

We learn to wait and understand.

Patience will be our salvation

In this life of our creation.

I said a silent, sacred prayer,

Then mindful of the chilling air,

Crept back inside, leaving no trace

That I had traveled to this place.

And yet my mind with visions filled.

There are no liquors, nor are there pills,

That can begin to replicate

The heady joy of entwined fate.

We were not strangers when we met.

The heart recalls what time forgets.

In variations we reside.

You held my hand somewhere in time.              

c. Feb 4, 2007