Three a.m. and the Stars Were Out.(Poem)(Illustration)

 
THREE A.M. AND THE STARS WERE OUT 
 
   When the phone rings way too late 
   for good news, just another 
   farmer wanting me to lose 
   half a night's sleep and drive some 
   backcountry wash-out for miles, 
   fix what he's botched, on such nights 
   I'm like an old, drowsy god   tired of answering prayers, 
   so let it ring a while, hope 
   they might hang up, though of course 
   they don't, don't because they know 
   the younger vets shuck off these 
   dark expeditions to me 
   thinking it's my job, not theirs, 
   because I've done it so long 
   I'm used to such nights, because 
   old as I am I'll still do 
   what they refuse to, and soon 
   I'm driving out of Marshall 
   headed north, most often toward 
   Shelton Laurel, toward some barn 
   where a calf that's been bad-bred 
   to save stud fees is trying 
   to be born, or a cow laid 
   out in a barn stall, dying 
   of milk fever, easily cured 
   if a man hadn't wagered 
   against his own dismal luck, 
   waited too late, hoping to 
   save my fee for a salt lick, 
   roll of barbed wire, and it's not 
   all his own fault, poor too long 
   turns the smartest man stupid, 
   makes him see nothing beyond 
   a short term gain, which is why 
   I know more likely than not 
   I'll be arriving too late, 
   what's to be done best ...