west.

“West,” said the oldest cowboy,

but it came out more like a cough

or a laugh that got trapped in a smokehouse,

and he closed his eyes,

stroked his horse’s stoic mane

chomped the mushy corpse of a cigar.

The others nodded, half-smiling like all true believers,

   squinting into the sunset,

   night closing in around the sounds

   of flapping ponchos and swirling dust and coyotes

   of heavy sighs and restless wind

   and whistling through canyons

   the light that only grows in dry deserts,

   silhouetting lonesome crows

   and making their young faces glow

   the oranges and pinks of an old man’s America

and they stood in circles and drank beer

kicked dirt on the fire at bedtime

and fell asleep under vast granite skull-piles

   believing their grandfathers

            when they told each other stories

            about which lands the Gods called home

            and their holy Western orientation.

MJ 1/30/2013