night poem no.5

cosmic withers
are measured in the hands of god

the sky hangs like a promise
the first stars wild as pistol shots
bird flocks rise from the west maples

last rivulets of light are trickling
down the drain of evening sun
showing the path of rise and run

each blade of grass etched in shadow
like a herd of cattle rising from texas
to oklahoma, to kansas city
how idly they will stare bovine
they ask us
nothing at all

o the twilit way you walk divine
your funny smile and last
look back lasso, flicking casual as the moon
wanders the night
why should I keep my two feet down?
the earth has kept this to herself
god's lone hands measure
at the withers withers withers
silence is the spur between our words
slap shouldered and saddle shined
silver, whistle, hi-ho, ride!