Turkey buzzards circling
In still morning air
Catching updrafts from the valley
Where farmers yolk
Their oxen for a days ploughing
We can hear them yelling
To their beasts and each other
Goading the day to its end
Horses stamping
The sun to its setting
A promise of music and rum
And dancing in the town square
Washed and work clothes
Exchanged for Sunday best
Maybe the warm hips
Of a lone siñorita
With a flower in her hair
And rainbows on her dress
Stamping and twirling together
But the siñoritas have long since fled
Leaving only cowboys and old men
To dance with waitresses for tips
Stale beer dry bones
Memories of what has been
© shaun patrick green
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