Cactus Cowboy

Traces of red cling to twilight
and plump peyote cactus fruit.
He is motionless, the air
under the sarape rojo
heavy with sweat and spice
trapped with his memories.
The ancient vaquero
is concealed by his sombrero
that once swiped flies,
gave shade on breathless days
when no cloud smudged the sky.
Woven deep into the hat’s straw
and the threads of the sarape rojo
are the words he whispered every day
to his mustang, a red bay,
another trace clinging to his twilight.