The Circle

Painting by Frederic Remington

The Circle

It was late October, winter coming on,
and the hills were dry and brown.
I was riding range, checking gates and fence,
to see if they were down.
I stopped upon an outcrop, got off my horse,
just stopped to gaze
At the land stretching 'cross the canyon
to die in the evening haze.

The clouds were roiling south,
must be a 'norther blowing in.
The smell of snow was in the air,
the sun was low and dim.

I hunched my shoulders,
turned my collar up to try and stop the cold.
My pony nickered in my ear,
he could feel the spirit of the old.

And the sky was bruised and blackened,
yet shafts of light cut to the ground,
Casting shadows down the ridgeline,
sagebrush whispering the sound.

The sound of distant voices,
long gone like shifting sand,
But still living in the spirits
of those who rode this land.

The hoof beats in the distance,
unshod ponies racin' free.
With wild-men on their heels,
coursing through the sage brush sea.

And the years scattered like wild seed
as the cattle herds arrived,
Pushed by young men seeking dreams,
a meaning to their lives.

How many went before us,
their names are lost 'cross the years;
Some tried to tame the wild land
watered with their sweat and tears.

Their mark they left across these hills,
I find them as I ride;
A cabin tumbled, turning back to earth,
a grave where someone died.

The debris of lives lived long ago,
discarded like so many dreams;
Iron horseshoes broken like glass,
blue glass reflecting soft sunbeams.

But still their voices ride the wind,
so many times I've heard the sigh;
The beckon me to come along
and follow where they ride.

I climbed back in the saddle,
turned my pony's head for home;
The jingle of my spurs
echoes back I'm not alone.

And I'm not you know,
for they ride with me
on the wind that brings the snow.
At night the coyotes sing their ancient song,
as they did so long ago.

The Earth will spin and years will pass,
I too will turn to dust;
But my spirit will live on in these hills,
in this belief I trust.

A hundred years from now or more,
a cowboy will ride along,
And stop along the same outcrop,
the spirit here is strong.

He'll stare off in the distance
across the hills the snow-capped peaks;
I'll be the wind that stirs the dust
below his horse's feet.

The clouds will turn that same sky dark,
like many times before.
His pony nickers just like mine,
the circle comes around once more.

And he'll feel the same spirit
at this place I've often called my own.
With a shiver now, he takes up the rein,
and turns his pony's head for home.

John P. Doran