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I toted my junker, side seam already cracked,

an old cheap box of wood that would take

the steep banks of small planes aiming

for runways, the bumps and jostles of sleds

hooked to snowmachines, the ice, the wind,

nights in the villages. Higher education

missionary, I made rounds to students' homes

(where I visited, but never fit), to liaisons'

offices (where the state-issued equipment

sometimes worked), to the local high schools

and elementaries (where I volunteered service)—

fiddle closer to my heart than the backpack

full of books. Indeed, closer to my heart

than the frozen broken truth: a bloody pump

buried in utter darkness.  Quick to unsnap

the case, I scratched tunes where no one had,

played real-life old-time music to Eskimos

and the odd whites in that weathered land.

The Pied Fiddler, I might have been, gently

placing the beat-up instrument in others' hands,

giving up the bow . Good for smiles and laughs.

Random questions and comments.  A third-grader:

It must be like having a dog making noise—

you must never get lonely.  A high-schooler:

Is it hard to learn?  One of my college students:

Why are you out here?  Where is your family?

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