What can YOU say in six sentences?
Ten hours in the saddle and what is August serving up?
Bull-rubbed baby cedars and sun-ripe prickly pear fruits, heated through and strung with cicada song.
Cows in cedar shade licking salt blocks with rough lazy tongues, sullen when asked to move, seasoned by a small breeze from the blackdark cloud building in the northwest.
Dry empty nests serenaded from above by suddenly freed parents, feathers ruffled, and now the small rumble of thunder silences us all.
Ants build hopeful hills, taking seeds out to act as sponges, and when I pull my saddle off, my sweat is so mixed with horse sweat that I can't tell the difference; my knees ache.
Not-quite-cold beer in hand, I stand in the breeze in soaked tank top as the windmill slowly squeaks with the storm's turn, and you say, "That thing sounds like Jimi Hendrix!"