RUNNING BABY TURTLES INTO THE SURF    

I'm down on my knees watching.  
She is like a child digging
on a beach, flipping sand
into my face.
    Weeks later,
under a sky warped
by the shrieks of sea birds,
her baby turtles scramble
toward the surf.
     
         Off shore
the sharks have gathered,
to gorge on them
as if they were floating dishes.
But before that happens
the sea birds are relentless,
plucking the baby turtles up.
I drop a turtle as I run it towards the water
   and before I can snatch
it up, a frigate flies off
with it. 
I'm like an armored truck's guard
trying to pick up
   the scattered cash,
       the truck turned over,
     and the neighbors
swooping
              in.

 WHY I NEVER GREW UP TO BE A COWBOY

 In the photo
 I'm six years old clutching
 the reins of a pony.
 My right hand is grabbing
 the saddle's knob.

 The man walking my pony flicked
 his cigarette into the dust
 and when the palomino
 stopped as if waiting
 at an intersection
 he gave it a slight
 tug.

  We rounded a fence.
 A dozen palominos were wagging
 their rumps in front of us.
 All the horses had long faces
 and plodded forward, heads down,
 as if they were working
 their way up a pass
 through a deep snow
 drift.  "Ok, son,
 you can get
 off."

 The air clicked
 with cameras as parents
 greeted their kids.  It was as if we'd been gone
 on a cattle drive
 for months.  Everyone
 was praising us.
 
 From then on
 I never played cowboy.
 The promises of the prairie
 felt as empty as my holstered guns.
 I was a cowboy
 looking at his first
 barbed wire fence. 
 I never got over
 the sting
 of it.