Vaquero Poem by Juan Olivarez

He sits tall in the saddle,
Firm steady and proud.
Away from the masses,
And the maddening crowd.

His face weather beaten,
The jaw set like stone.
Over hills and through gulleys,
He rides all alone.

His hands are as gnarled,
As a hawk's devil claw.
They grip tightly his reins,
And are quick on the draw.

His black eyes stare out,
From beneath his felt hat.
His hair falls on his collar,
The blackest of jet.

His legs slightly bowed,
From long years on the go.
He's ridden through rain storms,
And dust storms and snow.

Six feet, maybe more,
He has on his frame.
They call him Vaquero,
No one knows his name.

He nudges his paint,
With A Mexican spur.
That he won playing poker,
In Hidalgo Del Sur.

The inlaid silver saddle,
That he sits upon,
Is the last thing he owns,
Of his father now gone.

He dreams that someday,
He'll return to his home.
To seek out the woman,
Then he won't be alone.

But till then he'll wander,
The prairie alone.
With the paint as his partner,
And the prairie his home.

The sky is his blanket,
The good Earth is his bed.
As he hums to himself,
An old song in his head.

They call him Vaquero,
He's one of a kind.
Of a breed of hard men,
You no longer find.

He rides off toward the sunset,
And the gathering storm.
With full faith in his maker,
That keeps him from harm,

He's a man like no other,
That no one can tame.
He sits tall in the saddle,
And Vaquero is his name.

Finished May 2003 Alton Texas