It’s high noon in the not-so-OK corral.

Horses are getting weary, spooked.

Tumbleweeds and split rail fences

embroidery the western landscape.

I feel my heart tugging away

at the barb of wire coiled around

a scroll of Naugahyde peeking out

from a prairie schooner wagon

as the mule team chomps

at their bits, pawing at the red

Texas clay, keen on striking out,

Oregon-bound, eager for

a little Pacific redemption.

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