and I don't profess to be. That title belongs to others.
I am somewhere between horse girl and wanderer. Between stainless steel and a rusty nail.
I live for the wind and sun, for the crisp dry mornings cloaked in cloud cover. Riding through false passes and dead ends. Pistol tight in the small of my back, reins laced between fingers. But always forward.
There is no rear view mirror on a horse.
Forward until the soul of the land speaks and somewhere - amongst bottle caps and shotgun shells, broken glass and scattered bones - I find beauty
in a place of waste.
Where the city lights twinkle in fragile sublimity, and the earth wakes anew each day.
And I am not the one I was before. No longer yours. No longer mine. I am the one you don't yet know - the one still yet to be.
And I wander alone because well,
aren't we really always?
A self imposed solitary confinement.
Who would put up with that after all?
But someday, this chapter will close and then
where will I go? Where will I be?
Lost in the desert. In the tall prairie grass where the windmills still turn. Lying still under a languorous sun.
Chasing some old dirt road, oblivious to where it ends. And on that day, in those final words,
who will walk the horses home?
This one gets even me.