The Edge Of Town

The scattering sage stands thin and tense As though afraid of the barbed-wire fence; A windmill purrs in the lazy breeze And a mocker sings in the pepper trees, And beneath their shadows, gold and blue, Hangs the old red olla, rimmed with dew: Where the valley quail in the twilight call, As the sunset fades on the 'dobe wall, Just where the foothill trail comes down, I have made my home on the edge of town. A few green acres fenced and neat, By a road that will never become a street; And once in a while, down the dusty way A traveler comes at the end of the day; A desert rat or some outland tramp, Seeking a place of his evening camp; The door of my 'dobe is four feet wide, And there's always a bed and a meal, inside. And many a one of the wights that roam, Has stopped at my house and found a home: And many a tale of these outland folk Has furnished a tang to the evening smoke, While the stars shone down on our dwelling-place, And the moon peered in at a dusky face. Singers, they, of the open land; The timbered peak and the desert sand, Peril and joy of the hardy quest, Trail and pack of he unspoiled West: Though crowded back to the lone, last range, Their dream survives that will never change. When the hill-stream roars from the far-off height, And the rain on the patio dances white; And the log in my winter fireplace gleams, And my Airedale whimpers his hunting-dreams; Should a boot-heel grate on the portal floor, Should I hear a knock at the dripping door, Then I know that Romance has again come down From the high, far hills, to the edge of town.