Iron-wrought tracks of western times,
That run to the distance, there sunset shines.
Indian breezes of an ancient land,
That whisper their secrets, quiet and grand.
Freedom to leap, to shriek, to fly,
From the dusty strewn plains, to the deep blue sky.
Running, racing, like equestrian ghosts,
But wheels instead, that turn, that coast.
The iron lines rattle, they shiver and shake,
Before, and then again, the bull’s wide wake.
This Western World, the one left wild,
Holds memories etched, from adult to child.
A time, a place, another existence,
Left even behind, steel resistance.
Love it!