Whispers of the Prairie

Out where the cottonwoods lean on the breeze, and rivers carve songs through the sage, a lone rider hums to the hush of the trees, an echo of some other age. His boots wear the dust of a thousand trails, his hat wears the weight of the sun, but his heart still believes in wide-open tales, and dreams in the key of a gun. The campfires remember the names that he spoke, the horses still answer his sigh, and somewhere beyond where the prairie smoke broke, the past rides eternal and high.