By Daryle Cofield

One man sits in a saddle, while three others drape over theirs.
Eight shots were fired in all. Stopping three, wounding one,

and another goes free.
Silver Star that reads Ranger, bounces to a slow rhythm

of a single rider on a horse.
The squeak of the leather saddle was like music of an old barn dance song

he remembered years past.
Sweet smell of gun powder still lingers on his clothes.

Rife in hand, cocked and primed.
Blood dripping down upon his chaps from a shoulder wound

where a bullet still lies. It burns like fire.
The rocks ahead bare only the colors of brown and gray.

Ambush awaits.
Flash of red & yellow in the blink of an eye.
Leather squeaking stops as the Ranger hits the ground.

The old barn dance song that he was humming comes to a halt.
As his eyes fade to blackness.


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