The Gypsy Drifters
Yellow lines run, just like me, from mountains to the desert.
My heart throws itself at the land and at the horses.
Snow paints over the dust, the rabbit brush stands like islands and The Eagles sing me on down the road.
Old cedar fences strung with the barbed wire curse bear big Angus bulls.
Time seems to slip away in my parts, but the fresh country rings wild and adventurous.
The sage and the scent of horses drift across this cold breeze.
I wonder what Texas is like.
I wonder how far I could run, how far I could ride across that range.
Coffee, hot and bitter, and I can feel horse hide on my skin always and I dream of grays and blacks, sorrels, roans and bays.
Like an artist with his canvas, me with my map and I splash some paint across the West.
The barns that sweep through my fingers remind me of the ranch, of grandpa, of the old days.
The cedars staring at the gypsies as they pass remind me of a bird dog’s grave.
The sage brush covers country like a grouse pup across the desert mountain's ridge.
The cliffs and the rocks are the only things that fence me in.
I don’t know where all I’ll go, all I know is right now, I’m driftin’ through old Idaho.