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Poem

The Hill Country is dry and you can forget about California
Filled with dying live oak and mesquite
There’s a seven-year drought upon us
And momma says it’s going to get worse
Red ants on the tire trails
They don’t seem to mind the heat

The Southern Pacific blows out of the west
Heading east with a pack of coyotes behind her
Suckling pups yapping at the Estacado winds
They know a meal ticket when they see one
Sooner or later that cattle is going to need to be fed
And that pack of half-baked desperados will be waiting

They are on the trail because hunger drives all creatures
And the heat curling up from the caliche 
Will wilt the best of the arid crops
Leaving nothing but jack-rabbits and mice
They look up and growl when my boots hit the ground
The dust clouds up and the scorpions scatter like quail

I walk out toward the old water tank to see if she’s still pumping
Tepid water and nightmares of creatures that couldn’t escape
They float rotting and ghoulish in the foul water
I fish them out and throw them off into a cedar break
Rules of the desert: leave the dead and the wounded behind

The flies begin to gather and the buzzards are on the wing
Nature is taking its course.
It must eat.
I see the coyote’s skitting through the low brush
I drop a bead on one  with my old 30/30
But I got no reason to kill him
I haven’t raised cattle here since 92. 

He stops and turns his head toward me
And for a moment we both understand
It ain’t me against him or him against me
It’s just us trying to get through this life 
A life carved out in many ways
About learning to live, die, sing, and dance to the rhythm of life

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