It was a somber sound the wind carried through the bluestem and bermuda down into the Mexican desert still to wild to tame. It took with it my angry words stinging like icy rain, and it took me with it too.
I’m a wandering soul now like the wind that always blows. I have no one to hold my feet on the ground, and no one to care if I am found.
Some run to escape stress. Some drink to numb the pain. Some choose anger to deal. Some shy away. Some fall into a depressed and lonely state. Some draw. Some paint. Some dance the night away. I’ve tried all of those things, but in the end it was a cold day in March that finally eased the pain in my head and the ache in my heart. Amid the tangible breaths, the smell of horses was faintly mixed with the overpowering aroma of cold ground and winter rain. The sound of ropes swinging, sliding, tightening could be heard. The slick forked saddles, ranch ropes, bosalitas, and flat brim hats seemed so out of place in that Oklahoma town. I reminisced to the days of roping calves and covering miles of open ground surrounded by the Montana sage. My heart belongs to the northern plains, but for a moment I could feel at home on a cold Oklahoma day.
Coffee chases away the chills of the night as I sit wrapped in fleece, still rubbing the sleep from my eyes. There’s no sunrise to poeticize at this unjust hour only the light from the kitchen’s bare bulb illuminates the shadows where last nights demons still hide. It’s a morning blend of stale whiskey and lingering words better left unsaid.