Citrine logs firing up to

    cool eastern breeze,

proud boulder

    of bottomless story

sits and listens,

    to Thunderhead.

Oh Thunderhead,

    raging feet on angry soil,

you cough up

    such a hissey.

Hoofs stirring and shaking;

    canyon's beside manner, somehow,

is entertained

    with this production.

Catching phantom Mustang's sweat,

    illusive as passing ethereal, feather clouds,

driving

    scouting hawks to bedlam;

cactus lucid tears

    on a dime can descend.

Flying by piercing through to

    bittersweet portals,

how the corners of horsy freedom

    could be a table puzzle someday,

of its rawhide understanding.

This way is granite legend with

    mile-driven, heishi moccasins,

and airborne, leather, mane visions.

The power and fury

of this unroofed connection

of the unsettled West,   so proud.

    Somewhere out there,

    somewhere locked

    in a time capsule of its decorated space.

    Buffalo heads are tossed

    on their evolving comeback,

    in a campfire's medicinal, historical flame.

Oh, Mustang Sally

it was so good for you then.