Ghost cow
The truck that crashed down
Interstate 17
Spilling off the sloped sides
Of the side of the most eastern
Bradshaw Mountain
Carried cattle that in their deaths’
Followed the trail to Bumble Bee.
The lonely brown steer,
Struck to the north in a fit of heat stroke
Wandered uphill to Sunset Point
He stands there today, enjoys the whole change of the season.
A set of eyes straying from the highway
May yet catch his silhouetted horns
On a backdrop of pink sky.
The rest of the heard were last seen
With bees on their noses entering into
The old ghost town
Never to be seen again.