cacti grew where none wanted to
shading a chicabiddy from her blazing sun;
frozen nights in the desert
warded off by wolves and weredeer

shy by the morn
ravenous by the night,
stalking ewes and dewy-eyed dames
rough and tumble outside city limits

child of tumbleweeds and hawk teeth
he buries his knowledge
in the cavern he calls den
as silent as the world he was born into

the whisper of the wind
doesn’t reach his ears, but touches
his fingers, licks his lips
navigating his path with confidence –

clint dwells in the gloaming of the
hills, his reach across the west
like roots from the mother tree;
morsels sought on his behalf

the chilling tales that circled
the taverns told of beasts and men
that fell to the hum of a man
who could tell the vibrations of the earth
from those of the sky,

fear begat fear, begat a hunt
they wanted to tame their demon,
saddle him with a leash,
but you don’t merely clip the wings –

the trek through the hills rang
with the screeches of sodomy,
and ended with the shrill cries of
the vultures, waiting for their turn.

and if you walked into the clearing
where they had all fallen to their knees,
entranced as they waited for their turn,
you would see the blind stare of clint –

the slow trickle of a lost bandit down his chin,
and he spoke his first words;
“it feels better biting down”