Poem by Leath Tonino
Editor’s Note:
The Centennial Valley in southwest Montana stretches between the Centennial Mountains and sagebrush steppe. Once a corridor for stagecoaches and livestock bound for Yellowstone, it has since quieted. Today, it is home to the Red Rock Lakes National Wildlife Refuge, protecting the largest wetland complex in the Greater Yellowstone Ecosystem. Each year, a small group of artists is invited to reflect and create here through the Taft-Nicholson Center Artist-in-Residence Program.
Established in 1935 and renamed in 1961, the refuge safeguards land, water, and wildlife across more than 53,000 acres, including 32,000 acres of wilderness. For all its biological richness, the valley remains profoundly still. In that stillness, artists pursue their work.
During his 2015 residency, poet Leath Tonino spent a month walking the wetlands before dawn with a notebook and coffee, sitting among pelicans and swans, returning midday to read and write on the cabin’s porch. Twilight brought long walks down the dirt road — beer in one pocket, pipe tobacco in the other.
It was a month alone, save for a few brief visitors, including a mid-afternoon visit from painter Dave Hall. Though strangers, Leath remembers the exchange fondly: “I was glad to see him, glad for the company, glad to talk a bit.”
From that solitude came A Month Alone, a poem shaped by quiet contemplation. Hall’s luminous paintings, too, emerged from the valley’s pulse. Together, their work conjures the essence of the refuge.
Ghost Town
no ghosts so far
far as i can tell
unless the cabins
are themselves ghosts
haunted by cabins
that once stood here
built on foundations
of the deceased
yes
perhaps
no wonder in wind
they shiver so
Calendar
lost track of the days
on the second day
or was it the third
could have been the first
that afternoon seeming
to reach through
all the others
even this one now
nothing to do
nothing to break
hours into minutes
weeks into pieces
just sunrise and sunset
and the weather
but even those changes
change little
that afternoon seeming
to reach through
all changes
swans keep on sounding
Trumpeter Swans
your necks do something
when they do their many things
and i feel that something
inside my chest
call it joy
call it trumpeting
but smoother than a trumpet
longer than a note could ever hold
Piano
out of tune is
my kind of tune
this room is
my kind of room
playing to an empty
house of cards
yesterday’s saloon
today’s sad song
play it long
play it with memories
morning owls
light from clouds
moose and bear
bear and moose
hold the lyrics
make it a double
make it longer
make it stronger
toeing the brass
barefoot
down there in secret
to sustain
Computer Breakdown
round we go
spinning rainbow wheel
sign of sickness
sign of slowing down
which means
what exactly
back to pencil and paper
back to stacking books
back to a conversation
with myself
some ancient chitchat
back before birth
Animate Silence
the silence is stalking
hunting at dusk
knife on a cutting board
i am the prey
Smoke Haze
sad she is
this day so sad
this smoke
from fires elsewhere
here now
hazing here
me
she
the day
us
hazing insides
fires from afar
Pipe Tobacco
all afternoon waiting
for this
the walk
the pocket
the seat
the thought
this place
this fencepost
this gray board
old headgate
ditch with a view
this this
so into the pocket
the hand
the sunset
the wind
the dying light
the moment at last
tamp
flick
shelter and flick
every evening
inhale
exhale
take it all in
give it all back
Collection Of Things
feathers at first
no wait
let me back up
to that basket
empty on the shelf
wanting
seemed to me
to be filled
feathers or leaves
grasses
whatever
a slim bone
anything small enough
any lost thing found
here
i tell you
the finding is easy
valley giving
everything away
just have to stoop
touch
consider
consider
carry home
