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I saw him once near Bogan Creek,
just as the sun went down.
The sky was pink and full of smoke,
and the dust rolled off the town.

He sat his horse like it was part of him,
easy, quiet, sure.
Didn’t say much when he passed me by,
just nodded. That was pure.

His coat had holes, his boots were cracked,
his hat had lost its shape.
But something in the way he moved
felt honest. No escape.

I asked him ‘bout the world today,
the screens and glowing phones.
He spat and shook his head and said,
“They’ve all forgot the stones.

The ground beneath their feet is real,
not flickers on a screen.
They’re chained to buzzing little lights,
forgetting what they mean.

Out here the wind still tells a tale,
the stars still know your name.
But folks are lost in endless scrolls,
and nothing feels the same.”

He reached into his weathered coat,
pulled out a cracked old phone.
“Even this one can’t replace the earth,
or the places I’ve called home.”

He lit a smoke with shaking hands
and stared into the night.
“Life’s not the kind you tap or swipe—
it’s flesh and blood and fight.”

Then tipped his hat and rode away,
a shadow ‘gainst the red.
A rider from a fading time
where hearts were not for dead.

Now every time the sky turns pink
and the gums begin to sway,
I think of him and wonder how
we’ve let the world slip away.

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