Fronteir

It’s lonely out here
past where the railroad ends
through swinging saloon doors
out in the gasping hills
where the crowd smells only gold

Here where we draw our own landscapes
draw water among the cacti
draw pistols from sagged belts
draw lots in broken straw
draw lines on our dusty faces

The sky burns for us
the town doesn’t care who we are
troubles are solved in the rush of oil
conflicts on scabbed knuckles
hatreds from barrels in a dry dawn
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I wrote this'n when I was particularly frustrated with the necessity of returning to Fort McMurray, a town that I sometimes view, perhaps unfairly, perhaps not, as uncaring and violent.