bright July morning
a dust cloud follows me
over the cattle guard
up with the rooster
the boss has me
shovel out the barn
moving the tarps
down the irrigation ditch
alfalfa in bloom
leafy cottonwoods
I find a shady spot
to read The Good Earth
blades flying free—
we pull the windmill rods
from deep in the rock
mattock in hand
alone on this rocky road
distant virga
learning to ride . . .
a prickly pear cactus
really is
amble, trot, canter, gallop
each pace hurting my butt
in a different place
the lariat harsh
on this college boy’s hands
season of drought
rising breeze
I learn to roll my own,
in the saddle
riding fences
. . .
the cosmic hum
ratcheting barbed wire
now and then
the rasp of a locust
my cutting horse
jumps to the right
I don’t
Mexican yearlings
for fun the ranch hands
practice heading and heeling
August midday sun
the sizzle
of the branding iron
clenching my teeth
I hold the bull calf down
as he’s made a steer
their obscene hiss
in the cast-iron skillet:
mountain oysters
squirming at both ends—
the garter snake
wired to a hay bale
getting pretty drunk—
I’m glad the Indian’s with me
in this cow-town bar
ranch house game of Hearts
I try again
to shoot the moon
cool wind coming down
off the Sangre de Cristos
summer wages
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