Prelude

Let me lay the scene: a Western plain—

In all directions, level with the eye, horizon.

At our feet a ditch, half-filled with water,

Around which grows the only green in sight,

Dry tufts of grass, a tangled cactus.

Nothing moves, unless the white clouds overhead

Inch toward the West. The sun, straight up

Beats down. Look! Look to the East, at land's edge,

A dot. I think it is a man comes riding —

It is the Cowboy, lean and tall and handsome!

He swings, easy, from his tooled-leather saddle,

Unstraps a canvas padded steel canteen,

Bends to the stagnant pool and, with his hand,

Skims the green scum to the side, and drinks,

Bathes his wrists, and, when the pool is still,

Looks at the face he has not seen for days.