A thousand voices race down the hillside when the four appeared.
There were horses and wide women, jugglers by the game stands.
A man in torn white shirt and worn denim trousers walked towards us.
He had dust in his hair as if he had walked many miles in the desert.
We offered water but by the wave of his hand to the whiskey, we poured.
The sheriff became curious and wandered over to see who this man was.
The man said I have been on the road all day trying to hitch a ride.
I’m headed to Galveston, I hear there’s work in the rodeo and fine women.
The sunlight reflected off the sheriff’s sunglasses as he took a closer look.
In the background there was another man who seemed quite out of place.
He was tall about six foot and had a black wristwatch like the divers wear.
He moved forward and stood opposite the sheriff, he had octagonal shades.
He said I know you to the torn shirt man, I saw you last in Dade County.
Your that singer, that wild guy, John no, jack no, Jim yaa that’s you, Jim.
The man in the torn white shirt finished his shot glass and turned to the sheriff.
He looked up at the clouds, then pointed to a hawk and said…
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