Volume 8 | Spring 2018
by Mark McCreary
Father’s face rough, unshaven, weathered
Never had a thing
And knew even less
In the clear cloud days
In a mill dust filled barn
When stallions wild came sweeping
Descending eagles escaped on feather
From quiet mountain homes
Mother’s back porch mealtime call
Found Father moved and glaring
Thinking about boots spent
The kill remembered
Each was like a bull tamed
Little cowboys lost
Pulling his very will away
Could war
Even years behind
Fell its man
Her soft placed hand
Would end it
For now
Under the hot Dakota sky