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A downpour in the humid desert valley
was hampering a rancher's horse in stride. For miles the posse chased the would-be outlaw, determined that no jury would decide his wretched fate. The leader of the lynching wanted land rights, if only this soft-spoken man had sold. Another way would clear the ranch of title, his accusations easily unfold without debate. The rancher's friend rode out to warn of danger, a posse wouldn't take much time to form, the pair became two fugitives on horseback, both unaware an Arizona storm was moving through. Deciding to split up and halve the posse, the friend went east to hide among the hills, while heading west the rancher followed train tracks, with Red Rock in the distance with its mills, in shrouded view. A water tower stood along the railroad, the structure nearly hidden by the rain, the rancher knew that this would give him shelter, not certain that those hunting would remain in steadfast pace. The hail pelted Red Rock with a fury, as if the heavens tried to intervene, the rancher safely stood beneath the tower and tried to figure if he had been seen by those in chase. The sounds of hooves and shouts of men were closer, and barely heard above the rainstorm's roar. Before the rancher found a place for cover, the posse entered Red Rock looking for their quarry's trail. The water tower looming on the northside would get attention from the posse's guide, they followed him and circled 'round the pillars, the rancher in plain sight, who can't decide how he'll prevail. He froze and saw the posse had surrounded the open tower base, and he was caught, but no one seemed to notice that the outlaw was waiting there to face this bitter lot, still unperceived. A conversation borne of their frustration became apparent to the rancher now, they'd ridden in the muck and cold too long, the posse would return and disavow the charges weaved. The rancher stood in disbelief and wondered, while riders left and headed back through town, just how the water tower had protected this unassuming man without renown or history. His story would be shared there ever after, the Red Rock Water Tower saved the man who in a maelstrom, with a lynch mob chasing, would search for shelter underneath its span- true mystery. 
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The crags are aligned as if sentries on watch,
for eons the valley below has echoed the sounds of its weathered decay as thanks to the looming plateau. The pines Ponderosa, White Bristlecone, Scotch, have lasted erosion's resolve, while thunderstorms buffet the stoneface array, allowing the cliffs to evolve. Though man hasn't crowded upon this frontier, there have been explorers who seek awareness of nature unblemished and chaste, when hearing of scablands' mystique. The salt flats and boulders of sandy veneer, surrounded by gargoyles of rock, still wait unconcerned with its fate interlaced with politics' unyielding clock. 
Summer, how we've missed you!
The tackle's been waiting, we're long last debating on where to go. The camps, overcrowded, with lakes that are drying and beaches now frying its denizens. Oh, Summer, stay longer! I've built a strong lean-to with logs, or I mean to, in baking brush. It's one hundred and five, a glorious season of pain for no reason, and we like it. Oh, Summer, please help us discover vacation without this frustration and sweltering... Autumn, how we love thee! 
Unexpectedly, my morning of gardening had an audience. 
Midweek marina,
your sails long for open sea. While naked masts point upward to the Wednesday sky, sailors are anchored to desks. 
What would we ever do without your towers?
A grace that stands against the cobalt sky. Your silhouette could fascinate for hours, the height and deft of muscle you supply. A beam of gray floats silently above me, suspended from a ribbon made of steel, from left to right you swing around the birch tree and carefully your gears unwind the reel. While each of levered arms supporting lattice of trusses and a maze of countless walls, without your Herculean apparatus, there wouldn't be skyscrapers, cities, malls. My eyes perceive the beauty of your profile, and like the gentle birds that share your name, you rise above the turmoil and the junk pile, with little thought of what the world became. 
The winemaker's season begins with a crush
And bountiful harvests of grapes, Machinery turning the fruitage to mush, The barrels removed from their capes. The vintage assured in a very fine year, When weather and timing agree, The soil is tested, its chemistry clear Of all microscopic debris. The grapevines are withered, succumbing to cold, Their branches are barren and dry, Devout revolution as seasons unfold, Deplete and replenish supply. A winemaker's hope is unswerving and true, Despite a poor yield professed, The master fermenter's best values accrue When wines of the past are assessed. Aware of sensation upon the first taste, The cordial libations perceived, These blended elixirs are fully embraced For tender emotions achieved. With fleeting fulfillment of palate success, The trust of the vintner still weighs, They cultivate art of sommeliers finesse, Explaining the winemaker's gaze. 
With one look they can change people's woeful despair
with their oversized petals of gold, unaware of attention they garner with impassive flair by the odd passers-by, a hushed whisper of wind gently sweeps without care, as if nothing's awry. As the sun tracks the sky, it is followed by those pretty sunflower faces, together they pose in a field of poetry harboring prose, and if only they could, they'd uncover their stalks and set out for, who knows? without limits, for good! 
The dim of dusk calms delta's shoal,
and soon begins cacophony, its tenants anxious to patrol. The dim of dusk calms delta's shoal, the feral night would soon console nocturnal beasts' disharmony. The dim of dusk calms delta's shoal, and soon begins cacophony. 
The sun relaxes as it sets
as if to leave the world alright. When winds die down, again you feel an eerie calm before the night. The dusk takes hold and air is cool, quite different from the hectic day, but wearied eyes now contemplate the placid eve now on display. A gift presented by the lake to all who wander on its shore, is slivered sun, a final glimpse, which now will offer new rapport. That eerie calm, I've come to know, is just the chaos letting go. 
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AuthorJack has published over 350 poems in his career, many with his own photography. He specializes in a view of the commonplace and Americana. Archives
November 2018
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