Thick tan hide, deep acorns cut
worn dark and smooth by time
and horses ambling one-by-one
over the knoll – bays and sorrels,
some with chrome, a brown, a paint,
two duns – all with names
I remember in different places
that have not changed since
these tarnished silver conchos
squinted blindly beneath
the saddle strings, white
sun on the snow at the door
in Billy Maloy’s driveway.
The flesh was young then,
before winning the West
took a lifetime, made truth
an elaborate myth for men
to pass with coffee, or whiskey –
for women to correct and clarify
with facts that didn’t seem to matter
then, on this ground around
where canyons, trees and rocks
have kept their names,
for yet another generation going
gray with the seasons spun
like tigers into butter –
not that long ago, it seems.
drycrikjournal 