No cedars of Lebanon, Mount Lemmon,
        ever smelled as godly as your great pines,
        nor did Kings of Hebrews tread more proudly
        on golden carpets of fallen needles
        than did the Mitchell brothers, late from wars
        and laden now with loot from Old Puedlo's bank.
        The watched the squirrels, built cooking fires, and dreamed
        of Mexico, the land of all escapes.

        But evil sheriffs from the hell below
        were plotting to fell gods on Olympus.
        They gathered posses from Tucson and Tombstone--
        The dream was ending....The sweet scent of pines
        was poisoned with the smell of gunsmoke,
        squirrels fled bearing ghosts of dreaming brothers
        to the high hearts of wounded and trembling trees,
        hidden Apache warriors shed agate tears,
        horses were draped with dream-emptied corpses.

        Down, down, down they picked their way to Tucson
        through sad saguaros in postures of salute.
        High and mighty canticles to the dead
        was the music of shod horses on stone.