Dusty boots trace the Tetons’ shadow-line,
a prairie sighs, antelope blur the sage.
Coyote hymns hum where the pines incline—
the wind tongues secrets from an ancient page.
In Jackson’s dusk, a diner’s neon bleeds,
strangers trade snowstorms over coffee steam.
June’s laugh lines crack like creek beds—stories seed
where cherry pie melts into twilight’s cream.
Bison carve paths through constellations’ sprawl,
mustangs drum earth where asphalt dares not creep.
Red canyons clutch the echoes of a call
old as the falcon’s cry, the river’s sweep.
Campfire sparks gnaw at the ink-black throat
of night. The Bighorn points, the Wind River writes
a map in scars, in hoofprints, in the note
of steel strings frayed by endless, star-flung flights.
Pronghorn dawn. Ghost towns exhale their dust.
The wind stuffs my pockets with wild—I trust.