THE EAGLE TAILS

In the wide, empty spaces of the desert west of Phoenix, there is a great eagle of stone silhouetted against the sky on an enormous sculpture of red rock called the Eagle Tail Mountains.

Ol' stone eagle in the sky, Not preenin' hisself; not gonna fly, Jes' perched there with his wings half-furled, A-gazin' down on his desert world. Take a look at him; there he sits, Like the bird on a U. S. A. two bits. How long have you been there, Eagle, hey? Three hundred million years, they say.

I've seen the shark swim over me, When Arizona was a sea, Felt pale, soft things grope down my face, To find their last long resting place, In that black, cold, and silent deep, That lies beneath my feet. And I have felt the earthquake's blow But that was a long, long time ago.

I remember the Forty-niners, Prospectors and hard-rock miners. Trail-weary, dirty, faces sun-furrowed, All of their grubstake packed on a burro. Armed with a rifle, a pick, and a shovel, To tear at my vitals and sift through the rubble. But I guarded my gold; they found its bright shine, Off there to the north, at the Vulture Mine. So the prospectors left me and went on their way, To the big strikes in Cal-i-for-ni-ay.

The calvary, bloodied in frontier battles, Moved America west on McClellan saddles, Played their deadly hide-and-seek, With Indians underneath my peak. Chased down the last Apache band, To still the war-cry in this land. Columns of troopers, riding hard, They opened the trails that chiefs had barred. Guarded my passes steep and narrow, Broke at last the Indian arrow.

What's the one thing above all else, If you could would you grant yourself? That million-year-old wish would be, For once-just once-to face the West, See the Great Painter at his best. Then turn again and once more face, The East in my accustomed place.