It's What You Make It

It's What You Make It

Foster, John Clay
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Roads of the West refuse to end, they waver over 

rivers, roll sleeves up cityscapes. Comb hair in

windows of downtown breakfast joints or fancy

looking cowboy bars. They shuffle hooves with

wild horses, cross wood bridges over dried up

stream beds, uncover old Indian arrowheads—

some still stuck in the ribcages of whitetail deer.

 

They tell stories around log fires of men riding bison,

horned bulls, docile grizzlies or maybe even a baby

brontosaurus. These roads go through gates, over

grates and meet ranchers behind electric fences. They

howl and bark with wolves at beige blue moon faces, feed

unfledged field mice in worn down farm houses. Buy cold

apple pies from grandmothers who blush and say

"I hope you like it." 

 

Painting by Parks Reece

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