Vashti

Westerns are so much a part of American culture that it’s a rare channel-surfing moment when you won’t see at least one classic western on your TV. Like my dad before me, I cut my teeth on westerns – first in film and later in print – and they began to influence the outdoorsy person I grew to be.

I was about to enter new frontiers in my life when I wrote the following prose; I was 17 and soon to leave for college.

VASHTI

I lie here, dry-gulched, alone
Lifting my head, though I barely can
I survey the broken juniper near me
Like me, it suffers from the effects
Of ricocheting gunshots

I swear softly
And think of Vashti

With dusty hat-brim pulled low
I scan each tree within vision
For my assailants

Here I lie
Exposed, open, panting
Like an injured fawn
Surrounded by the ghosts
Of mountain lions

The sun is unbearably hot
And my forehead aches
For Vashti’s cooling caresses

My two Smith & Wessons
Are old, but they’re loaded
Yet my rifle is gone
If my aim is true
And they don’t see this bright red shirt
Before I see them moving
I might as well consider myself…

Faraway, dim reports
A small battle has ensued
And I know
I’ve got friends

Such a waste it is to take a life when
One is so unwilling a character
As I

Shots getting closer
Gotta
Keep my eyes
Peeled

Footsteps!
No…
Only my heart beating

Then a sharp heat tugs
At my shoulder
What?
Who…

My mind races
Madly
I fight to
Turn around
Ever
So
Slowly, to meet…

Blackness.

Yet I feel something
Dim, unreal
Soft, pleasantly disturbing

Death?
Surely not Death,
For how could Death
Feel so wonderful?

No it is not Death, for my soul stirs
Sensations on my forehead
Smell of corn!

I awaken to find before me
Vashti’s brown-eyed smile

~winehiker

No related posts.

This entry was posted on Thursday, April 17th, 2008 at 9:09 am and is filed under grape squeezins. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.