Shrinking tribe of cowmen
and women at funerals play
the same songs, like
Riding Down the Canyon
in ever-changing light.
Otherwise alive and alone,
we glide miles of ranges
and ridges between us—
let the mind’s eye roam,
slowly digesting landmarks
on landscapes reminded
with details we had forgotten
until the song, until the stories—
watching together
the desert sun go down.
drycrikjournal 