HORIZON-SEEKER

Camargo trots along the fenced-in road
of deep-cut ochre wheelruts as he sings
to pass the time of day and with him brings
all that he owns: his sorrel mare, his load

of personal effects - bombachas, shirt,
old chaps, maize leaves, a tarred tobacco cord
and, to drink maté from, his gourd
and pipe, then, hanging from a wrist, a quirt.

Behind him taps the new lasso he made
at the estancia he has left; a bag
contains what little money he can brag.
What more? - A harness that's inlaid

with pearl, a poncho, knife in heavy belt,
a hat and ringing spurs on crumpled boots.
A passing estanciero smiles, salutes
Camargo from a lurching jeep; the diesel's smelt

a moment and is gone. The peon's words
continue, stitch the teruteru's cry
in one long seamless song, and in the sky
above the man float music, clouds and birds.

At night he'll share some mutton and some feet
of earth at an estancia, but by dawn
he will be gone, for he is daily drawn
by new horizons. Rocky hills retreat

before him; or unhurried gleaming creeks
explore the wandering valley by the fence
where willow and the kill-eye tree breathe scents
as free as what he is and what he seeks.