Cosmic Cowgirl Remorse

As I sit here on this front porch step
I feel so far removed.
From the mountains, from the prairies,
from the cowgirl groove.

Much further than a phone call,
Or an airplane ride.
A feeling that’s been felt before,
often taken in stride.

Most times, when I feel this way,
I go catch up my horse.
But it’s too late for that.
Time for cosmic, cowgirl remorse.

“Go West my friend!
It’s the land of opportunity!”
Of dreams and National Forests,
the cowboy community. 

But go too far, and you’ll land
in the exact same place.
The true life for this packing gal’s
a rural, mountainous space.

East of the “Muddy Mizz”
and west of the Sierra’s
Cowboy hats are worn for fun
as costumes and tiaras.

There, a hat and boots,
Is a rustic, fashion statement.
Not useful, honest tools to help
with weather and displacement.

“Chinks” and “chaps” are slurs,
not rightful leg protection.
The only way to buck this feeling’s,
traveling the right direction.

To where one sees, a pack boot
and knows a person’s trade.
Where they call a “mule” a “mule”
and a “spade” a “spade”

The place where one can ride for days,
not ever crossing fence.
And diamonds are a hitch thrown,
with a lash and packing sense.

Right now I have the North Star,
to take me to Lost Park.
Just wish this cowgirl’s day dreams
didn’t happen after dark.