Into the Bob
I am from the dust of my tired boots,
From the orange sunrise,
Making the dew from 80 stampeding horses rise above the trees.
The need to feel his cold nose against my back.
The longing to feel the sun kiss my skin,
As I wade into the winding river.
Pushing my hat down as we reach the top of the pass,
To see smoke,
Rolling and drifting in the wind.
Washing my hair in mountain creeks.
Praying that there will be toilet paper in the old Folgers coffee cylinder, as I make my dash to the Red Room at 2 a.m.
The rattle of bells,
Sweat from my chestnut pony,
The crackle of a flame,
A bugle in...