Border Man
 
Gregorio Cortez was a border man
not too dark and not too fair.
 
About as tall as you or me
just a man, nothing rare.
 
He came from Matamoros or Hidalgo
not a bravo cause he showed that he could care.
 
His shooting skills were tuned up good
if you needed help just tell him where.
 
He could always track and find the trail.
You might track him if you dare
 
but you would never find his steps.
Never loud, he had a hand he used to share.
 
The seventh son of a seventh son
he could read the weather from the air.
 
Picking corn or cotton, his hand was fast
no need to boast, just kept his eyes and ears aware.
 
He could talk to horses and they understood
an hombre de campo, always vaquero square.
 
When he spoke to older men he held his hat, just there
to cover his heart in respect. Just a man, nothing rare.
©Steve Dirksen