The air is clear, clean—ridgelines
sharp with thunderstorms elsewhere,
too late to prolong the dream
of an everlasting spring.
The mottled transition of grasses
against crisp shadows holds,
drawing from ample winter rains
to become a painting, a pinto—
a young, firm-muscled overo
with good withers, soft mouth
and big heart, so seductive
as to lose myself to ride
these slopes for the first time—
like your eyes this evening,
hands reaching to touch softly
without the weight of words.
drycrikjournal 
Wonderful words, Duff; love comparing our hillside mosaic to a horse’s hide. Also learned a new word and after reading it, Terry and I were motivated to learn all about overo versus tobiano and pinto versus paint. Thanks, pard!
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Glad to amuse.
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Three great loves………
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