Past Lives

Past Lives

Boothill, buzzards, buttes, badlands,
an old shack on the river’s edge
and the lazy brown hills
climbing away into pale silhouette
high blue, faraway.
And at dusk
smoke from the fires,
saddle smells, carbine and cordite
sweet earth
and the fragrant wind out of the dark.
Then the long nights
strewn with stars,
almond blossom white and bright
in the cold vault of sky.
Yes, I remember, I remember.
Ride on ghost cowboy,
this life ain’t big enough for both of us.

– Jogyata.

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