The sky hangs heavy with an amber hue,
In the stylized landscape of
Where the old frontier is born anew,
Painted in shades of copper and rust.
A dusty highway cleaves the town,
Under the gaze of the canyon’s crown,
Where towering buttes of ancient stone
Watch over the valley, silent and lone.
Two lone riders on horseback pace,
Divided by time, or perhaps by space,
One draws near on a chestnut bay,
While the other follows further away.
With wide-brimmed hats and steady hands,
They navigate these sun-drenched lands,
Past wooden storefronts, low and wide,
Where secrets of the border hide.
The desert brush in clumps of green
Dots the edges of the quiet scene,
While fluffy clouds of cream and white
Catch the last of the fading light.
An unexpected dome of pale, clean stone
Sits where the rugged trail is blown,
A touch of order, sharp and grand,
Amidst the wild, untamed sand.
No bustling crowds, no hurried rush,
Just the wind through the sagebrush,
And the rhythmic thud of horses' feet
Echoing down the empty street.
Captured here in
The spirit of the West remains,
Bound by the cliffs and golden plains.