They say the western trail is carved from moonlight,

a ribbon of dust where shadows climb stone.
Horses breathe thunder into canyons,
and Cougar Rock waits,
ancient and unmoved.

A rider follows,
carrying fear like a lantern,
hope like a coin pressed in the palm.
The mountain tests.
The river listens.
The night does not answer.

One misstep
iron teeth in the earth,
a snare meant for cattle,
not for dreams.
The gray horse trembles,
the world holds its breath
and mercy unfastens the trap.

The ride does not end in triumph,
but in survival,
in the knowing that life itself
is the greater prize.

For some, the trail gives a buckle.
For others, a story.
Either way, the moon keeps watch,
and the dust remembers.