I see your mane, in each passing cloud,
the smoky stallion’s poll to the withers,
its giddyup and gallop, at midday peak,
in this arid Tucson where cowboys trod.
On the open road, contented and sleepy,
I see the shadows that form like a blanket
over the mountains with their historic shapes -
points, arches, dips and waves corral me.
I see...
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