The Roadrunner’s cry like a hawk
has changed to deep flute songs
calling spring like Kokopelli
in poppies on Sulphur Ridge,
wildfires spread across the green
where snows have lain.
Always his drawing in my mind,
these golden slopes he climbed—
the poem wrote before he died
too young, thirty-five years ago.
Sulphur sings his song today,
remembering all we can’t forget.
Sulphur Peak – March 3, 2015
For most who don’t know, my family purchased the Greasy Creek Ranch from Earl McKee, mentor, surrogate father and good friend for nearly fifty years, where Robbin and I run our cows and calves. Upon seeing the photo of the two bull calves that escaped a simple gather to the corrals for branding, he was moved to write the following poem:
My mind recalls this precious glade
Where these two youngsters lived and played,
And like years ago their ears would hear,
The trumpeting wails of their fathers near.
That trail close by, I long have trod,
On a favorite horse, these hands have shod,
We both know the song that the Robins sing,
And the sounds of the cattle, where the cowbells ring.
Where the blooming Chaparral smells so fair
And the scent of wild flowers fills the air.
Who wouldn’t come back to this peaceful place,
To see Sulphur Mountain’s Majestic face?
I too, wish I could return once more,
To what these two calves, were longing for,
God planned for this place to be left alone,
And like them, I will always say, “That’s Home”.
E. A. M. — 3/13/2015