Out here in the remote western reaches.
Stands a single stalk of corn.
Out of a field planted by some Pioneer.
Long before you or I were born.
A place long abandoned.
Now filled with cactus and thorn.
A place of forgotten hopes;
Through which dust devils blow their scorn.
Laughter once sounded fresh;
From small voices loud as horns.
Now lightning crashes and thunders.
The only visitor a majestic storm.
The winds blow spirits away.
All Native American born.
Their shrieks carried aloft;
By the howling swirling storm.
Discarded children toys;
Like a small golden horn.
Litter the desert sands;
And bring a feeling of forlorn.
The hopes and dreams now vanished;
As are the arguments and their scorn.
Out here where the mountains pronounce;
The end of desert thorns.
Written April 27th, 2004