far out in the open spaces, between spur and jayton.
we were fully loaded.
set the targets so we faced east, the afternoon sun blazing through the brush trees.
took off down the cliff and took a drink of the cool creek water.
clean and tasty.
the 45 was a cannon.
the rifle was pinpoint.
some story about shooting up a fridge.
gotta clear that chamber.
erasing body art and going a hundred between counties.
midnight runs and lime beers.
neighbor eyes and drive byes.
kitchen table recordings and white river lake situations.
final run through the canyon floor and the waters most surely will rise.
the holy waters of texico.
slipped through the mayor's backdoor and caught the last of the sun.
screened porch was dark.
old men nodding off and wavering.
music looping in the background.
mix of ray wylie, stones, metallica, and beastie boys.
groans when i slid in lucinda, but they came around.
she's got that rough voice.
a rocker woman.
a woman in control.
likes those guitars sounds.
billy the kid ballads and wine songs.
writing in a glowing hurry.
afternoon contests of strength and will.
evening stamina and naps.
like a shock, like a rush, like a warp.
the journey back begins.
final rewinds and reluctant reunions.
nothing has changed.
the west ends in jacksboro.
if you're going east.