The moon is fully turned on over
Fort Huachuca. On a distant ridge
A coyote yaps and whines his serenade
To an audience of barrel cacti.
The scooped out valley south to Naco
Looks like the Copernicus Crater,
Scarred with faults and bouldered rubble.
Tonight Bisbee must be an erupting
Volcano of beer. The copper miners are
Rolling in the lava, its froth washing
The dank and grime from their eyes.

In this last hour before taps,
The all-black cavalry battalion
Re-polishes its boots for the Colonel's
Weekly Review on the parade grounds.
Ernesto lies against a very old fig tree,
Dreaming a cowboy's dream of Nogales' whores
With perfumed smiles and swooshing skirts.
Soon he mounts his horse, heading west
Up into Carr Canyon where that lost
Calf might be. And the coyote leaves
The ridge, following a faint scent.

Donald Everett Axinn
From The Hawk's Dream

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