A s I make my slow way home,
cooled by the sentinel breezes
of creek and cedar canyon,
sunlight is a study
of hammered gold on terraced hills.
The Palo Duro moves over oak roots,
over shale and yellowed sandstone.
Upstream, beyond the bend
chinaberry trees diffuse morning’s haze,
morning’s battle smoke.
Sword broken in its scabbard,
empty pistol heavy in its holster,
I water my horse,
soak bruised hands in the chilling flow.
As we ended the Kiowa track
I cracked my saber on a collarbone,
a defender’s arm.
I’ve lived a life of two books—
Morphy on chess and Caesar’s commentaries:
all-out war, taken from the page.
Downstream,
regimental colors fly above the field commander’s tent,
West Point rings lay on a table,
gathered like agates in a marbles bag.
The best of their kind is dead, our general says.

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