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To the West
the sun sits,
sliced,
by the jagged spine of
the Rockies,
cutting it open
spilling sunset streams
of
salmon, plum, and pink
across a fading dusk blue.
Here the shadows have come calling
deep in the river ravine
where cougars
drink and depart
silent as they came.
The darkness hesitates across the foothills
and the plains,
waiting for
the moon to command the coming of night,
and orchestrate its symphony
of celestial light.
Urgency stirs
in a herd of wild Mustangs
this side of the Pryor Mountains
rustled like wind swept prairie grass
they run.
They run
because they can
beautiful and timeless
heartbeats, like hoof prints,
embedded in the land
They run
testing the bounds of their
unseen limits
their breath , strong and fearless, mingling with darkness
taking flight in thin air
towards that dim Western light where
a sun pierced
and dark
falling
falling
into the arms
of the waiting Pacific
waves pounding the shore
like hooves.
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