American West

These tremors grow beneath my toes.
The crest of the ripple's dark red glow
like embers beneath the quiet moon with a lion's paw.
It keeps my horses captive like a band of outlaws.

Even the darkest night needs an ally
against the morning light. 
And every word my lips suggest—
that's between my lips and the american west.

Sat in the crooked range with a desert breath—
the steadfast threat of evening hanging over my head,
over some jagged trains that fade from sight
and melt in silver rivers soaked in midnight.