from a collection entitled Stirrup of the Sun & Moon

It is akin to misplacing your keys

your wallet

your dreams.

It is similar to visiting a long-familiar haunt —

that beloved market of kind faces and friends

you had woven into the tapestry of your days

and suddenly finding them gone

and all the aisles changed.

It’s like the faint memories of your younger days

when you would drink, and drink, and wake

in locations of great uncertainty.

I’m thinking of that first heart-pained vaquero

who’d fallen so in love with a patch of ground

who’d grown intimate with every wash and arroyo;

who was a Disciple of the Breeze

on a first name basis with red wolves, magpies, chickadees

who heard the first pounding hammers of men

the first blaring horn of the train

and knew instantly

a whole way of life had just come to an end.

The end of silence has arrived, he said. The end of silence.

If you find yourself in the territory of exiles,

with your citizenship temporarily revoked in the land of dreams,


You cannot push the river or control the weather.

This is when you must rely on the old refrain:

Trust in the horse that is your soul.

She knows the way.

Let go of the reins.

(c) 2019 / Frank LaRue Owen /

sound: El Morro / The Black Light / Calexico

image: Rex Pickar