Devil’s Backbone
Deep in the shadowed canyons of the Devil’s Backbone heights
The haunted hills reverberate with a thousand years of pain
Where Comanche ruled these steep, stepped halls. Beneath the vast, starred nights,
Coyote calls echoed from walls, when the moon would rise again.
The full faced moon shows the pearly rock a creamy shade of light.
The turkey gobbles for his mate, and bats swoop and swirl around.
The antlered bucks in velvet prongs rear up to train for fight.
And the wind sings songs the whole night long; exulting in the sound.
Sit with me on a morning ledge and watch the storms roll by.
The dry earth seems to yearn to touch the healing bliss of rain.
With a forked tongue the lightning leaps to cliffs from darkened sky.
The rain rolls down to hueco seeps, and the desert blooms again.
Lie in the crystal sparkling stream, with water up to your ears.
Hear the rippled history of the stone and ancient men.
The song of the Blanco River passed down through the ageless years.
You can lie in the river and shiver and quiver when the air is a hundred and ten.
The Whippoorwills in crevassed hills sing songs of countless woes
That denies the beauty of the place, and makes the stone a liar.
The fireflies glow on the old Blanco down where the wild rice grows
And the sotol grow fifteen feet tall, and the agave even higher.
Despite the fractured plain, the toil and pain, and the evil name,
You can stand upon a lofty ledge, and feel the winds of history.
There is a beauty in the place that brings you back again
And feel the breath upon your face, and marvel in the mystery.
This poem first appeared in The Hill Country Sun in August 2014 and was featured in the book Where the Wild Rice Grows.
A copy of the book may be obtained from https://www.Aim-HiBooks.com.
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A
Thank you for the compliment.
Beautiful, Ernie!