Summer 1996 • Vol. XVIII No. 3/4 Poetry |

The Winter They Bombed Pearl Harbor

All winter peacocks screamed, strutting the sameslow pose. At dawn, we smashed the ice with hammers, dumped pots of boiling water steaming into troughs for beaks of preening peacocks. They shoved each other off like cousins bunched at the only mirror before church. My logger father whittled a forest with buzz saws, the roar and buzz of steel and mosquitoes more than my ears were tuned for.My brother and I played keep-away with feathers,dazzling the surly turkeys and peacocks with footwork, lobbing frozen dirt clods like grenades, until our father called us. When roads were frozen,I jockeyed the throttle of a John Deererusted before the war, hauling logs and hay balesto farmers miles away. The war was almost lost when my father enlisted, Pearl Harbor bombed, the fall of Bataan all we heard for hours on every station at night, except for our parentstalking softly after bedtime and peacocks screaming in the dark.

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The Middle Years

By Walter McDonald

All winter peacocks screamed, strutting the sameslow pose. At dawn, we smashed the ice with hammers, dumped pots of boiling water steaming into troughs for beaks of preening peacocks. They […]

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