Outriders At The End Of The Trail
Dedicated To The Memory Of My Uncle, Evan D. McRae
By Wallace McRae

They contemplate their town-boot toes
As they stand around and mill.
They check the south horizon,
'Cross the tracks above the hill.
Their suitcoats hint of mothballs.
Their Levis are clean and creased.
They speak of grass or cattle
But never the deceased.
Some have shook the Gov'ner's hand,
And one's been in the pen.
Crooked legs define the bronc hands,
Cropped-off thumbs the dally men.
Their spring-toothed necks are throttled up
In silky black wild rags.
Their faces scored like flower stamps
On well-worn saddle bags. .
They've come early to the funeral home,
Yet don't want to go inside.
There's no comfort in a breathless room
Or words of "eventide."
They somehow share a secret bond
As each one recollects:
Together.
Separate.
Silently.
Each pays his last respects.

You'll hear no keening to the vaulted skies,
But the good hands know when a good hand dies.