The Dark Horse Upon the Hill
By Glen Enloe
He was an old Crow Indian
Rejected by all his kin,
That never fit in any world,
But now lived among white men.
He must have been near one hundred
In our scale of years on earth,
And acquired a wealth of wisdom
From the first day of his birth.
All his words would tell his visions,
And I can hear them all still –
Especially his prophecy:
The dark horse upon the hill.
The time would be of many storms,
And grim changes would occur –
There would be wars and many deaths
And the bloody, silver spur.
The chiefs would be great and many,
Yet their medicine be bad –
And on the land would be defeat –
Squaws would wither and be sad.
Yet, there would be one still more feared
To trap us with his cruel will –
The one that spoke of hope and change:
That dark horse upon the hill.
And so the once great nation falls
And becomes like all the rest –
The mighty banner now unfurled
As it sinks into the West.
Yes, that old Crow saw it all then –
Now we know the coming chill –
We hold blinded eyes open to
The dark horse upon the hill.
The Last Sip
By Glen Enloe
The old cowpoke drank his coffee
And thought of days long past –
The land that stretched far as you see
And things that do not last.
The foolish pride that once brought fire
To a young cowboy’s heart –
Are forgotten now in the mire
Like friends that now depart
Upon a ride that you’ll soon take
Into that setting sun –
As you look back for your own sake
To know that you are done.
