herding equine storms into gentle gait breeze,
but she's been kicking the paddock for years now.
She hears no comforting murmurs, only steadily
more irritating white noise.
She assumed that once she'd tied it together,
like hitching a team of mules to a wagon,
somehow she'd see a path forward,
but all she sees is mud ahead, obscuring the track.
She's not really the "cowgirl" type;
she'd bring the barrels crashing down
if she rode among them,
but just once she'd like to feel a
red bandanna and and the thrill of
sitting confident in the saddle.
She reclines in the dim-lit booth,
black coffee, stirred chuckwagon style,
an earnest plains paperback in hand,
longing to rope destiny,
settling for hobby horse dreams.
If her fantasies ride an open range,
while her days are spent without a saddle,
at least she has an idea of
the sound of distant hooves.