When you see dotted hillsides greening,
imagine puddles lining crumbling asphalt
on the road along the creek, bare limbs
rooted in the bank clinging to gray skies—
when you hear their call from the high desert
sea of sage, through pastel grasses
and red willow pools, streams framed white
beneath purple islands dusted snow,
from over the granite Sierra Nevada wall
seven hundred highway miles from home—
a man should know where he belongs
and learn to not overstay his welcome.
drycrikjournal 
John, you should run for President. You’re the kinda cowboy poet you could watch the Super Bowl with, not to mention have a beer.
I’ve added your blog to my Bookmarks, under “News.” Hope to make this a daily stop, along with my morning cuppa Joe. Something to set my mind up for the day.
Hope you liked the Saddle Cats CD. I look forward to seeing you again soon. My best to Robbin.
Yours,
Richard
LikeLike