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