Comanche Canyons.
Beneath this ridge
the old fort blares recordings
of those tired soldier days, a bugle
tinny on the spring wind.
They murdered very efficiently
from that place once
hounding the Apache and Comanche
down to shadows, stealing
all the water.
Righteous God-fearing
soldiers all. Doing right
by Jesus and the Generals,
I guess.
I rested on a split rock ledge
above it,
wedged beneath
an angle of cerulean sky,
the humming air
below my dangling feet.
In that place
I knew you yet
you were here
too long to be gone.
Sleep if you can.
The canyon has
outlasted them,
you must have known
it would.
And you, I hope,
have watered your
red horses
at the everlasting spring.
