White Crow in the heart of Wyoming
More poetry from White Crow as he emerges from the lonely Wyoming plains to find some Wyoming hospitality and companionship.
Good things move away fast; fantastic things are a breath, a gust of wind we try to hold in our mouths, minds determined to never breathe again for fear of the loss of it…and then it is gone. The breath is exhaled and for lack of anything else to do, we sigh. Eventually, if we are lucky, and if we are easy in this life, we smile, turn, adjust our hats, and step toward the next breath, hoping.
