My fingers hold the old pocketknife. 'Many uses,'

master said, and a picture on the side, carved

into ivory: a bull elephant grunts, solitary.

'Cut something else away,' he said, grinning.

My hand worked the wood block, and the pen

worked the page until I forgot the elephant,

his feet, trunk, tusk, and the flies he swats

with his tail. the bird on his back, though, sprang alive

in my hand as the knife trembled. 'Hold it tight,

Damn it,' he said. I couldn't, and the wooden bird

slipped away, a flutter of feathers and wind.

I close the knife with a click and drop

it into the pocket of my worn denim jacket.

The bird rests hidden by the tall plains' grass;

The pen writes another word, and the bull enters

musth, sees master wave a shotgun, and fells a tree.

We got drunk to give us the courage–'goddamn it,

point the shotgun,' he said; I pointed. I pointed.