Take me to the canyon, Pilgrim
Along a dusty trail
My pack mule’s been dying, Sir
For a thirst that’s never quenched.
Mine me all your gold now
Deep below the belt
Mind me as your prospector
I’ll be clearing all your debts.
I’ve been buildin’ ladders to
Mexico in a bottle
I’ve been runnin’ through my picaxe
And my hands sing rawhide.
One more round ‘for I go down
One to kill the dust
Maybe my day’ll come soon
I’ll fill my final thirst.
There I would rush around the stone well, the little arch covering darkness and holding a squeaky bucket as it slips. I glide as the dog snarls, hovering just far enough away because it knows what’s good for it.
A deck chair squeaks back and forth like the broken weather vane whispering from the roof. I eye it slowly as sun peaks over my mystery horizon and look around for a glass to quench my thirst. Sometimes a savage I must be.
Small herds of livestock check their watches against the consistency of the grass, it’s not easy being a rambling herd. Especially in these dry times of year, especially with the river running so low.
My spurs rang through the air like the hot sun stung, not a soul around this dry place.
Cursing, I sat down at the weathered kitchen table; a hard seat and cold beans. A window and dusty particles distracting my angel heart, because I am here to love and the long coat isn’t my true calling.
I tracked like the Cheyenne, a good ghost. I could find a trail on a rock boulder. The wind spoke to me as it washed over the vista, and I was a good long shot.
[note: to read the full epic track my land]