Here in the foothills of an extraordinary sky
(Next to him, Whisky, dappled, whinnying)
he covers his face with the wideness of evening,
though the dark shirt of pursuit,
barbed wire fence of mountains are
under his closed eyes.

He moves along the rim of hope,
over tumbling rocks, spilled water,
and in the distance dust, or is it smoke?
rises along the landscape of unattainable home.
Reluctant Judas follows roughshod in a jeep,
Spearmint yielding to his experienced mouth:
through East winds, through rain,
past stands of argumentative young pine
is the vision of highways, the
one more river to cross. "He can't escape."

He lies beneath the streaming
wild eyes, taut face, the
"finally come home"
the wet and shining black umbrella
he is gathered in.