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.
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