Comes twilight on the prairie,
The saddles sit the rail,
The lowing herd is bedding down,
Dust settles on the trail.
The tired ponies crash the gate
To reach the water trough,
As eager as the cowhands are
To shake the desert off.
A banjo by the bunkhouse
Is strumming soft and low
A prelude to the chuck call
To beans and sour dough.
Coyotes on a hilltop,
In weird cacophony,
Cry out their desolation
To a ghostly yucca tree.
The town is twenty miles away,
Next payday twice as far.
But dreaming . . . silver rowels clank
Where bars and women are.
(First published in Along the Lane: Dedicated to the memory of Thomas William Larsen, who lost his life in World War II)
No comments:
Post a Comment