Ho. The horses can water. We are miles
ahead of schedule thanks to cool weather
and a strong wind at our backs. Ahead
are the mountains where we plan to build
our city. Our bank will be solvent. Our church
will serve all faiths. We will pass tough laws
against fragmentation. Anyone threatening
unity will be sent to the plains to wander
forever. The plains have snakes and wolves
and much of the water is poison. Have the women
make dinner. We camp here. Tomorrow
we should be close to that forest, and the next day
we will find our place to live as destined.
Stop. It is farther than it seemed. No doubt
an illusion created by light off high snow.
Then, the wind changed and discouraged
the horses. They don’t like wind full in their eyes
all day. I urge you to stop this bickering.
Remember, our city will be founded
on mutual respect. I urge you to accept
this necessary rationing of food.
Above all, remember, every time you frown
the children see it. Several already
have been crying and saying there will be no city.
Wait. The mountains are never closer. What
is this land? We lost too many last night
in the storm and those who remain
are the worst, the ones we hesitated to take
when we started back at the river. You
remember? That town where we first formed?
Those saloons and loose women? Let them grumble.
We are going on. Indians know
the right roots to eat and there’s water in cactus.
Even if we fail, wasn’t it worth the trip,
leaving that corrupting music behind
and that sin?