The Texas wind was a torrent of dust and darkness, among the wind-tossed tumbleweeds,

The moon some ghostly dreadnought, tossed hard upon cloudy, surveilled seas,

The highway was a thin ribbon of pale moonlight over the desert, dark,

And the Coyote came driving—

Driving—driving—

The Coyote came driving his migrant-packed semi-truck, over the Southern border-line.

He'd a ten-gallon cocked-hat about his forehead, a bunched, old bandana o'er his chin,

A Carhart jacket of the color of the desert, and faded jeans of blue denim;

They fit him without a wrinkle: his boots were up to the knee!

And he rode with the humility of a Trafficker's pay,

His beaten truck's mirrors all a-gleam,

His sidearm holster a-twinkle 'neath the dash, under that starry sky, beyond the windshield.

Over the asphalt he rolled - as his cargo fitfully slept - into a South Texas ranch,

And he tapped with his knuckle on a windowsill, but all was locked and dark;

He whistled a tune to the window, and who could be waiting there

But the Ranch-owner's brown-eyed daughter,

Vanessa, the Ranch-owner's daughter,

Tying tight a bright red love-knot into her long and gleaming ebony hair.

And deep in the dim old Ranch-yard a stable-door creaked

Where Alan the ranch-hand listened; his face was pale, yet ruddy;

His eyes were hollows of jealousy, his hair the color of hay,

But he loved his cruel boss's daughter,

The Ranch-owner's red-lipped daughter,

Dumb as a guard-dog he listened long, and he heard the Coyote, sweetly, say:

"Just one kiss, baby. I'm transporting eight families into San Antonio tonight,

But I'll be back with a Coyote's pay, by the morning light;

But if the Border Patrol spots me, and follows me out of San Antonio,

Then look for me by moonlight,

Watch for me by moonlight,

I'll come to you by moonlight, though Hell and the Feds might block the roads."

He rose upright in the truck's front seat; he could hardly reach her hand,

But she loosened the wine-black hair upon her head! His face, it burnt like a brand.

As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his chest;

And he kissed its silky, black waves in the moonlight,

(Oh, sweet were the night-black waves in the moonlight!)

Then he pushed forward the stick-shift in the moonlight, and his truck thundered away - eight migrant families in tow - to the North.

He did not return at dawn; his truck could not be seen by noon;

And then, out of the orange sunset, before the rise of the moon,

When the highway was a flickering, heat-warped ribbon, among the pale sands,

A black-clad SWAT Team came fully armed—

Creeping—creeping—

Donald's men came creeping, into the old Ranch-yard.

The Agents said no word to Vanessa's father, they drank his water instead,

But they threatened his daughter, Vanessa, and questioned her about the foot of her narrow bed;

Two Agents sat flanking her, with assault rifles raised at their side!

There was death poised to strike at every window;

And Hell at one dark-orange window;

For Vanessa could see, through her flowing, black hair, the highway that his Semi-Truck would ride.

They had her at attention, with many a jeer and jest;

They had placed one of their rifles beside her, with the black barrel beneath her breast!

"Now keep good watch!" They told her.

She heard her dead love say—

"Then look for me by moonlight,

Watch for me by moonlight,

I'll come to you by moonlight, though Hell and the Feds might block the roads."

She twisted her hands in angst; but nothing changed!

She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat!

They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,

Till, now, on the stroke of a Texas midnight,

Cold, on the stroke of midnight,

The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!

Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,

She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;

For the highway lay empty in the moonlight;

Blank and black in the moonlight;

And the blood of her veins throbbed the moonlight, throbbed to her Outlaw love's refrain.

A rumble! Had they heard it? The Semi-truck's wheels ringing clear;

A low rumble, in the distance? Were they so deaf that they did not hear?

Down the ribbon of highway, over the sands of the desert,

The poor Coyote came driving,

Driving, driving!

The grim Agents looked to their prey! She stood up, straight and still!

A rumble, in the hot, desert silence! A rumble, in the echoing night!

Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a search-light!

Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,

Then her finger moved swiftly in the moonlight,

The rifle shattered the moonlight,

Shattered her innocent breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.

He wheeled the truck around, he drove on to the South; he did not know who stood,

Bowed, with her head o'er the Federal Rifle, drenched in her own crimson blood!

Not till the morn' did he see the News on his phone, his face grew gray to hear

How Vanessa, the ranch-owner's daughter,

The Ranch-owner's starry-eyed daughter,

Had watched for her love, a mere smuggler, in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

Faster, the Coyote drove like a madman, shrieking an ungodly curse to the sky,

With the asphalt of the road smoking behind him and his sidearm brandished high!

Blood-red were his jeans in the golden noon; wine-red was his brown, Carhart jacket,

When the Feds shot the Coyote down on the highway,

Down like a rabid wolf on the highway,

And he lay in his blood behind the tattered wheel, with a bandana still about his throat.

And even today, on a midsummer's night, they say, when the wind is in the desert sands,

When the moon is a ghostly battleship tossed upon cloudy, sea-black skies,

When the Interstate is a ribbon of moonlight over the pale sands,

A phantom Coyote comes driving—

Driving—driving—

A ghostly Trafficker comes driving, up and into the old Ranch-yard.

Over the asphalt his Semi-Truck rolls - as his cargo fitfully sleeps - into a South Texas ranch,

And he taps with his knuckle on a windowsill, but all is locked and dark;

He whistles a tune to the window, and who could be waiting there

But the Ranch-owner's brown-eyed daughter,

Vanessa, the Ranch-owner's daughter,

Tying tight a faded, red love-knot into her long and gleaming, ghostly hair.