RANCHER'S DEATH
Bend
his back
straight
as a buffalo
lance, curve
his mouth
like a strung
bow, push
the lanky jasper’s brown
Stetson beyond
the hairline,
cross the booted
legs, steal
the flyswatter
from his hand.
Have the heavier men,
who tote their weight
well above
their turquoise
trophy buckles,
remove him
from the bunkhouse
and promenade
past the creamery, butcher
shop and blacksmith.
Let the wintering
cattle range
with the shorebirds
and sharp tailed
grouse. Empty
the corrals
and loading chutes.
The longhorns
are due
a holiday.
Carry him
over choppy
sandhills ignored
by wheezing
winds in dead
river beds. Trace
the reservoir’s north
bank, teeming
with wild swans,
gulls and pelicans.
Cross sudden
little creeks
and half
hidden spring
runs that support
trout, pike
and beaver.
Take him on
to Wild Horse Hill
where the Dismal
and Niobrara should
have merged,
plunge him
into a sand
crater where
cottonwood and box
elder roots
droop from the cavity
walls like split hairs.
Say
an old Native
prayer:
there is dust from the whirlwind
there is dust from the whirlwind
the whirlwind on the mountain
And then
old riders,
with thick
torsos and slim
hips, walk home
hushed as a November
herd and listen
for his body
creaking like good
saddle leather
beneath the trail.