Dusty Boots

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