On those cool summer evenings when coyotes haunt the night
And the campfire is dying—burning low, then flaring bright,
A cowpoke plays harmonica as others sing and hum
While down by the chuck wagon a lonely guitar does strum.
Old glass-eyed Lon Stonecipher now stares silent by the fire,
Imagining old friends and folks in times both dear and dire.
Lon sees and talks to faces that flicker in gold flames—
He asks them of the weather—remembers all their names—
"There's Delton and Rosella, old Burlin and Rob Alcorn,
There's that sweet Renata Robins that kissed me one June morn.
There's Cal Shirlo and Spud Scanlon, that both died in the war,
Addie Belle from Abilene that said she'd love me no more."
Cowboys yawned and nodded—on this wild words did not dwell—
They knew the man he used to be, but this was just his shell.
The faces in the fire gave him comfort and offered hope,
They were his last salvation—without them he could not cope.
Lon stared into the fire for many hours before sleep—
His rest was fitful, frenzied—never calm, peaceful or deep.
And often he'd awake and gaze mournfully once again
Into those glowing embers in search of friend or kin.
"I still see my last best friend, that young Mathew Leatherwood
And the Dodge City gambler that I shot right where he stood.
I see my dear grandmother and my sister Anna Lee—
My grandpa and brother Jim, who died at the age of three."
The fire burned low and so did Lon out on that prairie bow,
But this was as it always was, at least until just now—
"I see you, ma—I see you, pa—your faces smile at me,"
So said Lon one last time, drifting out on a prairie sea.
Next day they buried Lon Stonecipher in that cold, dark land—
And right beside him built a blaze as hot as they could stand.
And then they watched the flames dance, and stared long into that pyre,
And to this day some still swear, Lon's face was smiling in that fire.
Originally Posted On Site: 2009-10-09 17:25:29
Last Login: 03.02.10
Visits as of 12-12-07: 236
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