No lone warriors left on weary ponies,
we gather at the edge of the West subdued
and yield to the fleeting moment beyond
our reach or reason—to be washed,
wave after wave, with our fears away.
All the people now in the picture—
I could have cropped the photo
to thirty-thousand yesteryears ago,
or by much shorter measure dialed it
to a certain future none will see.
Our hair is gray.
drycrikjournal 