Cowboys are the fire that burns. Riding along sacred land, dancing dust, twilight, then west... alone and wild. Desecrating laws that bind US. The ones we should follow because darker men know how to fly. Tobacco can be spiritual, too, if the inhale reveals just how open your space is. It's not forever, though, like your hat. Even if it was, forever is no match for the desert.
Cowboys, they are my weakness for so very long. Always on the precipice. Heart on your gun. I race between tumbleweeds, whipped and spurred, discovering uncharted admiration isn't mired in adoration, but grows inside like a prize I couldn't map out... in the alone and wild.
Who really says they want to be a cowboy anyway?
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