He stands in the shifting, spotted shade

of Cypress trees, who’s hard roots run

like the fingers of old men

through Bandera Creek.

Leaving the east, his sadness thinned out

until each regret recalled the last,

like a small house in yellow grass

he drove by half an hour ago.

Today, a woman he will never see again

thinks of him as she crosses Broadway

and enters a building with no name.

He stands by Bandera Creek, in dry country.

Patient, slow roads have gathered him

to the shifting Cypress shade

where he stands in silence

that started to gather the day he was born.