MAIL ON THE RANCH

The old man on the mule

Opens the worn saddle bags,

And takes out the papers.

From the outer world

The thoughts come stabbing,

To taunt, baffle, and stir me to revolt.

I beat against the sky,

Against the winds of the mountain,

But my cries, grown thin in all this space,

Are diluted with emptiness...

Like the air,

Thin and wide,

Touching everything,

Touching nothing.