Sunlight spinning through the trees,
Faint fractals imprinted on my eyes.
And I can feel the trees: humming, singing.
The old door creaks, rusted springs.
Gentlemen, no Cowboy hats allowed in the dining room.
Through the windows of my mind I can sense it,
The immense valley all around,
How it exposes my fragile individuality,
And brings me back to a larger breath.
The horses are cribbing again,
I can hear their giant lungs sucking down the air,
Whinnies, snorts, drawn out neighs.
The whooping of the Corral Boss in the pit,
Fragmented patina on the saddle.
And after a while it appears;
The infinite overlapping plains,
Folding and distorted beneath unhurried clouds.
A Western Meadowlark, the Northern Flicker.
Brush scrapes against my blue jeans.
And I can picture it all now,
The Badlands, the racetrack, the wrangling trail.
Creeping past an old Bull,
Flicking his tail at the flies
Our eyes met, and I swear I saw him smile.
And underneath that ever-present sky,
I can feel what they call divinity.
The West.
I am aware of the hope that is pressed,
Into every prairie coneflower.
The petals and elaborate center.
It all seems to fade here.
The ego and,
All my fragile human grievances.
That colossal moving essence
A haze of red and yellow, gentle greens.
Flooding, churning, cascading.