When Men Came West

Time ago, grass reached a man’s boot when
he rode his horse toward the west and a dream.
Jack rabbits and coyotes ran this place, burrowed
in lava caves when cougars and bobcats hunted.

Mountains watched over everything, but they
stayed out of what happened. Sheep men came.
Grasses disappeared where their flocks ate
and ate; cattle ranchers built keep-out fences.

Families suffered over deserts, mountains, defied
dangerous rivers where some drowned. Some floated
their wagons down the Columbia on shaky rafts,
built bridges for those who came after. Then many
staggered into Oregon.

Cattle and wheat grew; wells plunged deep into
hard ground, sometimes hit only more dust;
some hunted gold and silver, lost everything;
while many folk, back east, were urged to come.

Whole families marched toward those mountains,
gathered in small towns with dirt streets, plank
roads; cleared land, cut logs for one-room cabins;

called this place bountiful.

Coyotes still talk about the old days, time ago,
when they were alone in a wide-open land; when
tall trees waved wild and sang in constant winds.