DRY CRIK Journal

Loren’s story of colored horses, the great plume
of dust rising into the sky as they descended
from Buckeye – the same high ridge and deep

drop into the flat along the Kaweah that Dad & I
kicked cattle off each June – I could see it
in his eyes from the hillside across the canyon.

Bays, sorrels and duns bumping, leaping downwards,
single file – Fred Ward’s gather for the cavalry
strung for half-a-mile. It happened then, he said,

when he wanted to be a cowboy. Gills, Salinas,
Arizona rodeos, knotted tail of a paint horse
disappearing with the crack of manzanita,

forsaking the bunch for a wild one – working best
on his own. Old and cranky, put his pocket knife
to Leroy’s throat for riding in front of him

on the Roble Lomas. You could see dying
come back to life in his brown eyes, a sudden
damp reflection riding up the creek to Ishom

atop a wagon full of carp dried upon the rocks
at Belle Point. We shared it gently, heard
voices in the same place for a long time.

                                    - for Loren Fredricks