Somewhere up North a high school band
drilled across the field, the retort of a snare,

the pounding of a bass drum muffled
by distance, floating high above the maples,

the garden placid save for a man shouting
at his child, or his dog, it took all of us

a while to actually listen to the words:
Help, I need help.  And then we ran,

stirrup hoes and trowels in hand
like some volunteer army, found him,

extricated his hand from the weight
that had trapped it.  Not a ripple

in a sky, the breeze shook
the poppies as if nothing

had happened. I pulled them
out in shocking handfuls

as a red bee worried next to
my ear, dangerously close,

no, close as danger.