Spring Ride in the NE 1/4 of Section 6

A recent freeze left flaxen stacks

of waste and scrub. Our pasto verde

now a musky tan with limp stems

mushy under hoof. To the west

the Rockies and sky clash

 like Civil War armies,

retire daily under a bleeding sun.

To the east a white line,

picket fencing of the suburbanites.

They have no taste for untamed,

detest ranchland bland yet worship

the sameness of rough stucco boxes.

None know a bay from a palomino

or a pinto from an appaloosa,

but they brag how their wild horses

graze on gas and melt rubber hooves.

Few could find the North Star,

keep a fire burning all night

or find pleasure sleeping with rain.

To them I am the Marlboro man,

a stale smoke dangling from my lips

and a tip of a dusty hat. Once, their land

was mine. To me, they’re a roundup

of well-placed zeros on bank accounts.

First published in Tryst, October 2010    
http://www.tryst3.com/issue20/meador.html
some cowboy poetry flavor