He sits tall in the saddle, <br />Firm steady and proud. <br />Away from the masses, <br />And the maddening crowd. <br /> <br />His face weather beaten, <br />The jaw set like stone. <br />Over hills and through gulleys, <br />He rides all alone. <br /> <br />His hands are as gnarled, <br />As a hawk's devil claw. <br />They grip tightly his reins, <br />And are quick on the draw. <br /> <br />His black eyes stare out, <br />From beneath his felt hat. <br />His hair falls on his collar, <br />The blackest of jet. <br /> <br />His legs slightly bowed, <br />From long years on the go. <br />He's ridden through rain storms, <br />And dust storms and snow. <br /> <br />Six feet, maybe more, <br />He has on his frame. <br />They call him Vaquero, <br /> No one knows his name. <br /> <br />He nudges his paint, <br />With A Mexican spur. <br />That he won playing poker, <br />In Hidalgo Del Sur. <br /> <br />The inlaid silver saddle, <br />That he sits upon, <br />Is the last thing he owns, <br />Of his father now gone. <br /> <br />He dreams that someday, <br />He'll return to his home. <br />To seek out the woman, <br />Then he won't be alone. <br /> <br />But till then he'll wander, <br />The prairie alone. <br />With the paint as his partner, <br />And the prairie his home. <br /> <br />The sky is his blanket, <br />The good Earth is his bed. <br />As he hums to himself, <br />An old song in his head. <br /> <br />They call him Vaquero, <br />He's one of a kind. <br />Of a breed of hard men, <br />You no longer find. <br /> <br />He rides off toward the sunset, <br />And the gathering storm. <br />With full faith in his maker, <br />That keeps him from harm, <br /> <br />He's a man like no other, <br />That no one can tame. <br />He sits tall in the saddle, <br />And Vaquero is his name. <br /> <br />Finished May 2003 Alton Texas<br /><br />Juan Olivarez<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/vaquero/
