The Ridge of Old Oaks: Strength and Solitude in the Western Landscape

In the land of cowboys, the horizon is just the beginning of the journey.

Upon the Ridge of Old Oaks, wide,

Where storms once danced with fearless pride,

The gnarled trunks whisper tales so grand,

Of strength and solitude across the land.

The prairie wind, a hymn of grace,

Brushes soft against a weathered face.

Each sunset paints the sky in flames,

While the oaks stand tall, calling my name.

With leather chaps embraced by dust,

And spurs that echo resolve and trust,

I ride alone where the wild things roam,

Finding peace beneath the vast skys dome.

At dawns first light, the shadows kneel,

As golden rays bring warmth and heal.

On the Ridge of Old Oaks, time stands still,

In the heart of the West, I find my will.