I hear steps on the porch
boot heels and the ching of spurs
familiar silhouette
framed by the door
It's that time of the year
he comes around
with the wandering wind

He tips his hat
blue piercing eyes
gleaming under the rim
crow's feet like river beds
gaunt face
skin like leather
smell of saddle grease
trail dust on his clothes

Coffee cooking on the wood stove
I offer him a chair
"You're looking tired"
He takes off his hat
takes a seat
"It's the mileage, not the years."
as he watches me
pouring the coffee

We sit a spell
feast on each other's
silent presence
the desert is a lonely place
a spell you cannot break
the howling wind
and tumbleweed rolling by
on a journey to nowhere

"A little goes a long way" he says
as he finishes his coffee
grabs his hat
and gets ready to leave
Our eyes meet once
more than a thousand words
wooden planks creaking
the sound of boot heels and ching of spurs
as he steps on the porch
"Good coffee....'preciate it Ma'am.
I reckon my horse is waiting."

I watch him riding off
on that dusty desert trail
next year
same time
he will come around
with the wandering wind
for a cup of coffee
Written by Angelast1
Author's Note
Growing up with spaghetti westerns....I always loved that scene.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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