The landscape of her mind is vast, drawn out to a point far away
where a cloud of dust signals something coming.
The warm earth of her heart is mountainous, stippled with dancing
aspen glens, wild bouquets of indian paintbrush and purple penstimens.
The torrent of her will is river-wide and tears away chuncks of each
reluctant bank as it rages through the canyon and hurries on it's way.
Oh the western woman is the one the one that I prefer
to the city girl, prim and proper, fingernails and cigarettes, cute and
small with measured smiles, parked behind that office desk.
The big western woman whose breath comes out like mountain air
and when enraged cracks like thunder and comes down in an icy storm
The woman who loves, abandonless, like a prairie fire, and hides her
tears for no one but doesn't cry that much.
She's a wild ride with wind whipped hair and a grin from ear to ear
and she'll tumble down upon you like a cougar on a deer
and won't stand still for long while you whisper in her ear
because she's got nothing to hide
the least her pride
and the love of the life she's chosen
and as for me, those city girls, they might as well be frozen.