Spirit of the West

He tips his hat and rides

Drumming up shale as he goes.

A jagged row of juniper

high on the mountain

stands guard like ragged soldiers.

Mute, bedraggled,

thirsty,

Solemnly watching him pass.

The moon climbs warily

to coyote music,

bathing the spirit of the west

in phantom glow.

There he rides,

the man with a gun in lunar aura,

colt at his hip,

darkness beyond.