Fences and corrals, we have left
tracks of old people going slowly—
not a bovine thought of escape,
we have more time to walk
out of respect for all of us:
cattle, horses and human thought.
Tight wire and gates that swing
are luxuries, wages for the moment.
Someday, bankers will come
with some young buck dressed
to whip and spur, to hurry time
and change the landscape into
that Wild West dream they share
of pioneers, improved upon with all
the obscenities of modern times
and plant them here forever
beside the slick rocks near the river,
near the creek, near the spring, atop
all the long moments women ground
together: daughters, mothers and those
before them—a crescendo in common
swirling towards a waxing moon
over Sulphur that still rises above
the most recent magnificence of men.
for Hussa and Hasselstrom
drycrikjournal 