In early fall, in Minnesota, the rain falls, falls, In buckets, buckets and more buckets-: drops Likened to music from its many streams-land Of ten-thousand lakes; moistened gravel, gravel Everywhere?

Grandpa sits on the porch-daydreaming of, of Something, perhaps winter around the corner-; As the flies disappear, with the mosquitoes? Leaves will soon vanish, shadows will come early

Maybe he's thinking about summer: miles and miles And miles and miles of cornfields; his childhood now Long gone, he hums a hymn, a song; looking at the Metal-piped fence, he made, with three poles, on the Embankment, leading up the steps to the porch; It's worn-out like him.

The winds in Minnesota smell fresh, fresh from all The foliage, there's a lot of it. The eighty-three Year old man looks about, on his screened in Porch -fetches his pipe, lights it up, sucks in a Drag, pushes out some smoke: it drifts and drifts In the corners of the house

"Ah!" he says-proud of his life events-I say to Myself (I'm but ten): "No doubt He's already lived this?"

There are many stories he wants to tell, but first he Wants to smell the fresh air, the burning of autumn Leaves-He, never intended to have lived this long of A life, I believe, the old bear, came from Russia in 1916; He accepted life-adjusted to it

He hears the sparrows, their feathers flapping, faintly Soiled feathers, flapping, covering every inch of their Bodies- He notices frost on the nearby tree. It seems to Him, the sun is bouncing off of the ground, he gets bits And pieces of it on his face, it warms it, somehow, Thaws it out?

He's breathing in, frail like,-like reading Faulkner, slowly Does it, a ting uneasy. He never left Minnesota once, once He arrived back home from WWI (1918), "?no need to," he Says-he's happy? The fields are clean, animals in the barns; in the city, People getting haircuts-everything shutting down. Winter is now-it came last night, a Minnesota winter Is like no other. He just woke up, his bones chilled. The Wind blows, now it whistles, no foliage to stop its echoes.

"There are only a few left like me," he murmurs. The Flavor of winter he likes; warm biscuits, hot coffee, a Smoke from a pipe or cigar. Black branches that were Green a few months ago-: it's 10-below zero.

He sees the beauty of Minnesota in a glance here and There-It makes his brain swim with life; it is nature at its Finest!...

For Kathy [#800 8/14/05]

In Spanish Translated by: Nancy Penaloza

Respirando en, Minnesota [un poema]

Al comienzo del Oto?o, en Minnesota, la lluvia cae, cae, En cubos, cubos Y m?s cubos-: gotas Comparadas con la m?sica de sus muchos arroyuelos de Diez mil lagos; grava humedecida, grava por todas partes?

El abuelo se sienta sobre el p?rtico, so?ando despierto, de Algo, quiz?s el invierno rondando la esquina-; mientras las moscas desaparecen, con los mosquitos?Las hojas pronto desaparecer?n, las sombras vendr?n temprano

Tal vez ?l esta pensando en el verano: millas y millas y millas y millas de maizales; Su ni?ez ahora, hace mucho tiempo ida, ?l tararea un himno, una canci?n; mirando

La valla met?lica-entubada, que ?l hizo, con tres postes, sobre el Terrapl?n, Conduciendo los pasos hacia el p?rtico; Esto esta desgastado como ?l.

Los vientos en Minnesota huelen fresco, fresco por todo el follaje, hay Mucho de ello. El anciano de ochenta y tres a?os mira alrededor, sobre su protecci?n En el P?rtico ? trayendo su pipa, encendi?ndolo, aspiran una Rastra, eliminando el humo: esto va a la deriva y llega las esquinas de la casa

?" Ah!" ?l dice - orgulloso de los acontecimientos de su vida- me digo a mi mismo (pero yo s?lo de diez): Sin duda "??l ya vivi? esto?"

Hay muchas historias que ?l quiere contar, pero primero, ?l quiere oler el aire fresco, la combusti?n de Hojas de oto?o - ?l, nunca tuvo la intenci?n de haber vivido esto a lo largo de una vida, Yo creo, el viejo oso, vino de Rusia en 1916; ?l acept? la vida- adaptado a ello.

?l oye los gorriones, su batir de plumas, plumas apenas Manchadas, batir, cubriendo cada pulgada de sus Cuerpos - ?l nota la helada sobre el ?rbol cercano. Le parece, el sol esta saltando en el campo, ?l consigue a?icos y pedazos de ello sobre su cara, esto calienta, de alg?n modo, Lo deshiela hacia fuera?

?l esta respirando, fr?gil como, - como leyendo Faulkner, despacio hace esto, un tintineo dif?cil. ?l nunca dej? Minnesota alguna vez, una vez que ?l lleg? a casa de WWI (1918), "?ninguna necesidad", ?l dice - que el es feliz?. los campos son limpios, los animales en los graneros; en la ciudad, la gente que consigue cortes de pelo ? todo cerrando abajo. El invierno esta ahora ? lleg? anoche, un invierno del Minnesota no Se parece a ning?n otro. Justo cuando el se despert?, sus huesos enfriados. El Viento sopla, ahora esto silba, ning?n follaje para parar sus ecos.

"Hay s?lo unos pocos dejados como yo " murmura ?l. El Sabor del invierno le gusta; bizcochos calientes, caf? caliente, fumar de una pipa o cigarro. Las ramas negras que eran Verdes hace unos meses-: esto es 10 bajo cero.

?l ve la belleza de Minnesota en un vistazo aqu? y All? - Esto hace a su cerebro nadar con la vida; ?esto es la naturaleza en su fineza!...

Para Kathy [*800 8/14/05]

You can see Dennis Siluk's many books at http://www.bn.com or http://www.amazon.com