The Posse
In hot pursuit, bent low, we rode mounted,broke cold mountain sunlight, brittle as glass.
We scoured the foothills, fierce Llano Estacado,
'neath anvil-head hailstorms that strafed the stiff grass.
But rapier yucca leaves
soon blocked the canyon,
and thorny black grease wood disrupted the chase.
When black flies and scorpions
consumed our ramada,
there'd be no rough justice,
just us in disgrace.