O, Prescient Ewe
That knows where to stand
Avoids ambivalent hand

That bore this world
Of life’s command
To bear its high demand

O, Precocious Hen
Knows when not to lay
A life down in the hay

A babe unborn,
Uncracked, unraised
Unknown to her dismay

O, Prodigal Mare
Beware not to sprain
Or you will bear the strain

Though not for long
You’ll be for this plain
Where retired mounts are lain

O, Impassioned Pig
Whose fattening
Welcomes a fatter thing

Wash away
The amber glaze
Chase not the dangling

O, Prescient Ewe
Return to me
What is it you see?

Be sure it is
What’s to come
Not what you wish it be.

The Blossoms from the Pear-less Trees
blow like Snow in this spring breeze
glistening in the sunlight
smiling as their in flight
not a care about where they land
becoming one again with our Mother
this life
one adventure after another

a rider there found the lore
and envision his plan
though surely a wire tell
and fine her in her skull
a minute's worth of plaintiff
while they meet rhetorical
and anchor a horse feather
this bar between hither
with Pegasus dimly lighted
and Chisholm Trail afoot
wholly charm a spirit together
in a kiss of extraordinary measure
that a yellow sky glitter
under the stars tonight

pale clouds at the summit
water color sky
cattle guard at wood bridge
creek bed running dry

split log fence downtrodden
razor back in wire
sinkhole on the wild plain
grouse fields under fire

pine bug and a lone wolf
clear cut on the trail
stump lake on the open range
kettle valley rail

raven on the hatheume
slash and burn and scar
blasted church in a tired sun
wild rose under char

thistle in the hollow
quails nest sitting high
carriage house at lone rock
curtains of july

smoke jaw in the canyon
percolator dream
silver sage in chapel
schneider's requiem

stockmen on the wrangle
big horn antler chase
table top at sunset
deacon creek in grace

quarry in a furry
lines of tinted red
spurs and blades and columns
patchwork of the dead

past the bow hill junction
cattle ropes are black
indian amphitheater
saddle on the rack

sun is at a high bake
sedimentary stone
three days on the morphine
skeleton and bone

cold water road is lonely
corrals are cut and paste
gone but not forgotten
the dust filled aftertaste

Pa ran inside,
All out of breath
Ma said "slow down"
"you look you've seen your own death"

He shut all the windows
Closed the shutters, the doors
He went to the cellar
And locked the trap doors

"Out on the hill there",
"You can see by the tree"
"It's a horse from the Devil"
"And it's waiting for me"

Ma said "you're crazy"
"There's nothing outside"
"Least all a horse"
"That the devil would ride"

I went to the window
To check for the steed
Pa said "Don't open that up"
"That's all the room that he'll need"

"He's come from below"
"To take my soul down to hell"
"And his horse is the warning"
"I know...I can tell"

The mustang stood waiting
On the hill, all aflame
Was it devil or horse
Were they one and the same?

Pa was still shaking
He had sure had a fright
There was no way that we
Would get to sleep on this night

Pa then told Mother
Of the deal he had made
With the Devil himself
In the cool of the shade

A prosperous ranch
The envy of all around
With all of his problems
Put six feet underground

Dad said he'd reckoned
That the deal was all done
When the crops out the back
All burned up in the sun

He knew that the Devil
Was calling in for his share
When he saw the horse burning
While no one else gave a care

"I have to get through now"
"To the morning past dawn"
"Then the horse will return"
"And the deal will be gone"

We listened intently
We were sure Pa wasn't sane
But, we knew from his tale
He had nothing to gain

We'd take shifts in the night
Keeping the devil at bay
Only twelve hours to go
Until the next day

It would be an adventure
We would trust in our faith
Of dad's tale of the mustang
The flaming horse wraith

The night was a battle
The devil tried to get in
He worked on our hearts
By making deals sweet with sin

Do we turn in our father
Or do we fight till the morn?
Could it just be a ruse
Burning one field of corn?

To see how it ended
You must come out here and see
The scorch marks in the grass
On the hill by the tree

You can believe what I've written
Or hear what Pa has to say
But, it was the Devil's Mustang
Came that night for to play

Behind the evening's golden glow
The skies are hiding early snow
The road leads homeward toward the glow
Day is done, it's time to go

The gold shows ending of the day
The clouds show snow is on the way
Time to ride and not to stay
I've got to put this one away

Amber fills the autumn skies
Signalling the storm behind it lies
It's time to say our fair goodbyes
And be serenaded by coyote cries

The golden sheen is the sign
Your day is done, as is mine
I'm heading west along the line
Back to the ranch "The twisted nine"

A golden glow before the clouds
filled with snow, a winter shroud
I know the wind is getting loud
So I am off to beat the crowd

Behind the evening's golden glow
The skies are hiding early snow
The road leads homeward toward the glow
Day is done, it's time to go

Home is a red-shuttered house with over-
grown hosta plants, sold to a Chinese couple
whose translator loved our hummingbird
feeders and the way the house faced East.
We had a swimming pool, frog pond, two
pink bikes and matching helmets--mismatched
childhood memories nine years behind me--

we moved to a ranch, where I painted my room
the color soft, baby grass fighting through
wintergreen fertilizer, the kind my father
scattered over our front lawn, hoping to grow
something above the underground spring
flooding muddy, brown, saturated as we
became when my mother remembered her
locked-away childhood, my father broke
his back, my sister succumbed to self-blame,

and I cleaned up after it all. Our ranch holds
these events in its powder-blue walls, creaks
at night and wakes me from a dream repeating
nine times over--where I stand inside that red-
shuttered house, beside an eleven-year-old
me with honey hair bleached from too much
sunlight, speaking softly: you’re almost home.