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After the rodeo
of flour and gift wrap
settles to a powder
of glitter-dust,
there is a lull, a lust,
before young broncos
gallop the horizon, home
for a brief chuck-wagon
of mad, rawhide roping
and doting. I ponder the past,
the litter, the barren task
of a cyclone’s patina,
the bucking, testing
and crossing of lines,
an empty pen, and the thrill
to ride again, for just a day.
Tess Kincaid
December, 2010
Posted over on her site Willow Manor
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