Coronado's Quest

As I gaze across the silent plains
My mind plays tricks on me;
Through shimmers of the rising heat
There appears to be
Figures
Moving silently.

In my head I make the leap
To a time so long ago
When Coronado crossed this land
And he didn't know
What
He might see.

I think of how he may have paused
And raised his hand to halt
The mighty train that followed him
Whose sweat had turned to salt,
Crusted
On their skin

As unknown strangers there appeared
And sat upon their steeds
So alien with feathers in their hair
Aware of growing needs;
Water,
Source of life.

In unknown tongue and gestures
One pointed to the east
Then turned his shaggy mount
And seemed not the least
Concerned
For safety.

Soon, there before them yawned
The canyon of the Tule
Hidden in the vast domain
Where Comanche rule
Protected
By isolation

These warriors of the open skies
Who feared no beast or, man
Led parched and weary soldiers
To quiet pools where they can
Drink
Their fill

Before moving on in search
Of wealth they had been told
Lay hidden in this sprawling land;
Cibolo, made of gold,
Enticing,
Leading on,

Never to be found.

Chasing Hats

This morning as I listen
To the wind up in the trees
I'm reminded of perspective
For it's just a gentle breeze

To those whose life is rooted
On the open Plains
Where the howling of the Northers
Rattles window panes,

Uproots the Russian Thistle
That becomes a Tumbleweed
And sends it ever rolling
Spreading all that noxious seed

And how it's hard to walk
Without leaning to the wind
Unless you're chasing hats
That the whirling banshee sends

Flying 'cross the prairie
Where it lodges against a fence
Until you run and try to grab it
But, a gust catches it and hence

You're left standing, leaning,
Braced against the grit,
Abandoning the headwear
That still hasn't lit

But, races with the tumbling balls
For chance to take it in
Upon a place where it might wait
Until you run and try again

And you turn to face the onslaught
With your hand to shield your face
Against the rolling, prickly tumblers
In their helter-skelter race.

Prairie Ghost

Standing on the ghostly Plains

He watched as I drove by --

A remnant from the recent past

As through the grass did sigh

A voice, mournful, quiet, true

Of plaintive chanted prayers

For bloodied spears and meat to eat

And on my head the hairs

Did stand on end as chills swept

O'er my senses there

Of something present in this land

Long passed to ne'er

Return upon the hunt

With rush upon the fleeing herd

Their lances held on high

While overhead the bird

Of death circled on the breeze

Awaiting chance to pick the bones

Of those whose path was slow

And destined for the stones

To join them in the sod

So recently trampled under hoof

Where to this day

A sentinel aloof

Stands there upon the hill,

A silent Prairie Ghost,

A solitary remnant

Of a vast thundering host.

August Storms

The golden grasses
Crackle under foot
As dusty odors
Rise from my passing.

Even the insects
Are silently waiting
As the tiny dot of promise
Builds on the horizon.

A gentle breeze stirs
The drooping leaves
Of plants not native
To the arid clime.

Hope springs
In the blossoming white puffs
That appear mysteriously
In the blueness of the sky.

Gathering,
The whiteness turns gray
And then the deepest blue
As it hangs curtains on the horizon.

The breeze strengthens
And even the hard stems
Of golden grasses
Begin to shiver with excitement.

As the curtain approaches
A brown smudge appears
Rising against the darkness,
Swelling to a rolling wall.

The odor of dust
Permeates the rising wind
And the first stinging particles
Assail upturned faces

As dollops of moisture
Splash muddy blotches
On greedy surfaces
That quickly absorb.

Brown gives way
To greens and whites
On the backdrop
Of deepest blue-black.

Whack!
Whack, whack!
Pingggggg!
Run!

Peas and marbles
Golf balls and baseballs,
The roar grows
And overwhelms.

The horizon moves nearer
As objects fade
Beneath the torrent
Rolling across the plains.

Prayers answered.
More prayers said.
Fear and thanksgiving
Together swell.

Renewal
Comes
With
Trial.

Uncommon

This morning was beautiful as I rose early to a temperature around 50 degrees. There was light rain during the night and the air is clear, cool and moist. The pastures are green with flowers peeking everywhere; the wheat is heavy with grain before the ripening; the corn is quickly growing and there are cattle belly-deep in grass almost everywhere I turn. This to me, is the most beautiful time of year in the Texas Panhandle.

The morning mists
Are darkened shadows
Hanging in the dips
And valleys of the Plains
Which stretch onward
For miles in all directions
From my vantage on
The high flat ground.
The meadowlark's
Twee-phut-weee trills
In the otherwise silent
Coolness of the day
Before the common stirring
Begins.