The Posse
In hot pursuit, bent low, we rode mounted,
Broke cold mountain sunlight, brittle as glass.
Down wind-scraped desert, we burst from the foothills,
Stood anvil-head hailstorms that strafed the stiff grass.
But rapier yucca leaves soon blocked the way
And thorny black greasewood disrupted the chase.
Then fly-swarms and cacti unhinged the horses.
There'd be no rough justice, just us in disgrace.
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