Fond S. Canyon

Dreams of the Western Sands: Stories and Poetry Fond S. Canyon

The Rider The mystery of sagebrush dogs and mongrel coyote howls followed the faceless rider of desert dust and shaded infinity. The stallion flexed and sped through the shifting winds. A season of negotiated determination, the skillful acclaim of waterless bone dust and dried cactus flower rode in passionate graces of dark sashay as the chiding sunshine glimmered in his eyes like a bright beacon to home style illusions of fertile farmland and waves of rolling saffron bloom. The tempter of decreed dress rode in absolute acceptance and desire, in harmony with his dark calling, the silhouettes of allowable gloom. Clap, clap, clap, the stallion advanced in ethereal purpose, pausing only for the faceless rider as he put his finger to the wind. The rider smelled the scent of wheat fields and havens in promise of heaven. The heat followed him with flame. He was the faceless rider on the fray of god, on the vast horizon of what will be and what has happened with the guard of the angel. The black season, the bleak rapture followed the rider and his purpose, to defray the will of man and ride into the twilight horizon on a Razor's edge.