Concord

A poem from some time back about a bit of family history. There actually is a mesa-looking hill in Williamson County, Texas that this happened near.

CONCORD

There is a mesa over there,

see, to the east?

Oh, I know, the locals,

of which I'm one,

call it Pilot Knob.

It's Gabriel Peak

on the map.

It's a mesa to me.

In my youth I heard

the tales of my

great-great grandpa

William R. Seward.

He worked on the fabled

Smithwick Mill

on the Colorado,

not THAT one.

The one in Texas.

On moonlit nights

he'd get his horse

and ride to Pilot Knob

courting lovely Jenny.

The ride was far,

at night on horse.

I think he loved her.

We had Indians, they say.

Comanches,

both deadly and mischievous.

They knew the man

and the horse.

They wanted the horse.

In shadowed darkness

they'd lie in wait.

For horse and man to come.

They'd whoop and yell

and whip their ponies.

The race was on.

How many times

did they run that race?

How many times

did he win?

I know that he won.

Lucky for me.

That's almost all I know

about William R.

Perhaps that's all

I'll ever know,

or need to know.

It's enough.

On moonlit nights

I stand out here,

watch that mesa

over there.

I swear I can hear

pounding hooves,

a whoop and then

just the wind.

I know he's made it

once again.

I tip my hat

to memories

of old stories

and go inside

to my own Jenny.

Bill Seward

Jan. 26, 1998