Poem October 27, 2003 Issue

Troubleshooting

William Stafford

On still days when country telephone
wires go south, go home, go quietly away into
the woods, a certain little brown bird appears,
hopping and flying by starts, following the line,
trying out each pole.
My father and I, troubleshooting for the
telephone
company back then, used to see that same bird
along old roads, and it led us to farms
we always thought about owning some day.

When I see that bird now I see my father
tilt his hat and flip the pliers confidently
into the toolbox; the noise of my life, and all
the buffeting from those who judge and pass by,
dwindle off and sink into the silence,
and the little brown bird steadfastly wanders on
pulling what counts wherever it goes.

—William Stafford

REPRINTED FROM THE WAY IT IS: NEW & SELECTED POEMS WITH THE PERMISSION OF GRAYWOLF PRESS, SAINT PAUL, MINNESOTA

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