A slivered moon swings low
at the edge of town
flooding this western horizon
with pale yellow light
slicing thinly
through shadows of stubble corn
stirring the imaginations
of little eyes and little minds.
Inside
the men,
glowing like drunken jack-o-lanterns
in the evening light
wring their scraggily faces
as they become comfortable
in their favorite chair,
hiding behind their cards
with their leathery hands
always in full view,
their eyes always circling the table
looking for that lucky pair.
In the far room,
just east of ear shot,
daintier voices take the stage,
both muffled and plain
consoling one another
while their husbands and lovers
cuddle their whiskey and beer
playing keeper games
now that the last cut of hey is put up
and last season's yearlings
are gathered for the slaughter
up on the trail head; each wringing eye
betting everything
on an early spring.
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