The ancient mountains rise where eagles fly,
Their jagged peaks of slate and silver-gray
Reach up to touch the soft, retreating day.
A sliver of a moon, a pearly crest,
Sits quiet in the clouds above the west,
While cumulus in towers, white and grand,
Cast rolling shadows o'er the sun-drenched land.
Through the valley’s heart, a ribbon flows,
Where the sapphire water winds and goes,
Its banks are lined with stones of tumbled quartz,
A liquid road where every wild thing thwarts
The summer heat, as ripples catch the light
And dance in shades of teal and cobalt bright.
It carves a path through meadows deep and wide,
With golden grasses swaying at its side.
On the southern slope, where the sagebrush grows,
A group of riders follows where it goes;
A man in crimson leans against the wind,
Upon a bay whose strength is disciplined,
While nearby companions, hats pulled low,
Move with a rhythm that the frontiers know.
Across the stream, beneath the mountain’s face,
Others emerge in a slow and steady pace,
Their silhouettes against the amber field
Are ghosts of legends that will never yield.
Scattered like seeds across the verdant floor,
The horses graze beside the river shore;
A pale white steed stands lonely by the bend,
Waiting for the journey’s quiet end,
While others, brown and dappled, roam the grass,
Watching the slow and heavy seasons pass.
Green pines like sentinels guard the rising hill,
the wild is breathing still.
