Still life with killdeers.(Poem)(Brief article)

 
Startled, a killdeer rises, its call a chuckle, a ripped 
chord. The tide rides high tonight, sea snails dribbling 
past sprinklers. None of us belongs here or we all belong. 
 
Pre-dawn, parents enter the lettuce, the strawberry, 
the artichoke fields. Their children crest our campus 
at eight. No cafe con leche or pan dulce mutes 
the regimental signage--Artillery Range, Wolfpack 
Brigade, First Infantry. The call to arms lingers at this 
former fort, a canvas of fading skull and bones, crossed 
rifles, leering buccaneers. Students' eyes trace 
maritime dunes, cloud cover, passing faces, listen 
for ancient footfalls, fault lines, incoming artillery: 
faint echoes. Like the killdeer, tricked into thinking 
no danger rides the lawn, doubt unhinges reason. 
Their eyes shriek they're not really here, but home 
interpreting for parents, babysitting siblings, 
preparing for the end-of-year crossing. 
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