All the young girls like this remind me of her. She is in and part of the city. Both are part of the modern world that I have no passion to achieve or be part of. I do not reject it. If she walked into my dusty, old America, I would offer her a panama hat and the yellow sundress that blows on the clothesline in an open field.

She is gone. The city is to many miles for me to walk. I have my back to the east. I don't look back. Yet, pictures, like B. Davidson's, reminds me of her.

One day - if I see her - I'll say "Thanks." She's look at me like I'm a familiar stranger in a black hat that surfaced out of a crowd. I'll say it and ride my horse back to the ranch and the sunset will glow a cool purple before the sunsets on the next horizon. Then to the moon, I will say out loud, "I ride this land and be buried under my boots."

Will I regret the forks in the road where I traveled left on the map and strayed away from the right? Could have I be happy with her? Or would have I just returned from the Minneapolis divorce to the years badlands, plains and mountains that I gave her and lost in the courts.

Give me a horse and a dog. Women are ghosts - witches - that we need to place forks in our lives.

One day I will return to these blogs and review what I have typed. Replace an 'a' with a 'the' or even remove both and try to add words and properly describe the blue wool pants with the yellow stripe down the leg.