I thought your death would change everything
But the Brazos River has not changed its course,
And the shrug of these brown hills,
The jagged indifferent line of mesquite against the horizon,
The strings of spittle hanging from the mouths of cattle
As they chew cud in the narrow shade of the water tower
Remain as I remember

Although Wolf Corner, where we rode our bicycles
To see the rotting carcasses of coyotes, wolves, and wild dogs
Nailed on the wooden scaffold as trophies—
A custom, I’m told, ranchers adopted from the Comanche 
Who hung scalps on a tree as a warning to our great-grandfathers –
Is now the entrance to a shopping mall.
Walmart and KFC glisten in the Texas sunlight.
In a dirt island in the middle of the asphalt,
A small cactus garden blooms.

Our ancestors, the Irish and Cherokee who settled this land,
Horse-breakers, carpenters, farmers, builders of towns,
Comanche fighters, free-holders, despisers of lawyers and politicians,
Are still here.  Their bones are beneath the soil.



For Elizabeth Ann Simms Yeary (1957-2007)