Sky Riders

A Foursome on horseback rode
in blistered torrid heat
along the path of dirt
bisecting a wooden town.

The tall sky was not a friend.

The riders wore broad black hats
shrouding heads of hair,
smiles were hidden there
underneath those grim
cold covers
like a far deep night
holding zero stars.

And the tall sky was not a friend.

As I stopped to greet them
near the smithy’s shop,
sky’s silence was cut
right through
by the helicopter’s blasting
buzz.

(A chainsaw sliced a wedding
in trees so green and moist,
where all guests had traveled far
from the Spanish town of Guernica.)

As we flashed like smelting iron
from unconscious reverie,
we SAW the path of dirt,
the hats so dark and glum,
strange riders on four horses
who now knew the sky’s intent.

Hoofs continued
their clop along
in sound surreal
and solitary :
terrible trails of dust and blood
with memory’s awful song
afloat in fiery wind.

No, the tall sky was not a friend.