The old ways fade
and disappear into the dust—
we leave few tracks
in the mountains,
in the canyons—
our hands are rough.
Red rivers run
through our hearts,
love and logic pulse
our slow ascension:
young horseback souls
grown old and weary,
we inhale the pitch
of pine, the cedar
smoke, silhouettes
facing one another
around the fire.
Red cinders rise
to join the stars
of forgotten time
among the gods.
for Amy
drycrikjournal 
So wistful, like dust and mist and cinders. Your poem made my coffee sweet this morning.
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How nice! Thank you.
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Especially love the imagery of the rivers inside our own skin. Beautiful piece.
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Thanks, Ann.
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The vacation served you well. Beautiful.
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Thank you, Richard. A vacation during which I read two books by Amy Hale Auker celebrating the contemporary circumstances on cattle ranches, yet holding to the old ways, old ideals.
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This is not a poem written by a young man…sounds like you are getting old. Glad that is not happening to me… Thoughtful words…, true ones, too.
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We’re still young in places like our dreams. Your ms. is one of 3 books that I’ve read this year, all in a month’s time away from feeding hay.
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Mechanized anything can be a great assist, but when it crosses the line it destroys the man, the family and the soul of what has made America great. Will the day come when a cowboy no longer knows how to ride a horse? Will they go the way of the farmer?
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As a culture, we know what we’ve lost, we know what will never be the same as common sense becomes more uncommon. As a society, we have become slaves to our convenience. We have fallen, I fear, as individuals, in love with our selfies and the gadgets that produce them. I doubt that there will be much call for the satisfying values derived from making a living the hard way, but who the hell knows, anything can happen.
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Photo challenge; A cowboy riding horseback looking down, texting
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