A wooden cross, stout but prominent, stands atop the small church on the eastern edge of the small town on the high plains.
Rolling fast out of the hills the long train of coal cars glides quietly, still over a mile away. And the wind was cold and steady out of the north, the sun near to setting past the hills to the west.
After the last forest fire it showed through, tucked back into the hills, a remnant of a time gone by.
The gravel road meanders along the rocky remnants of a long distant past.
It gets cold on the high plains. And it seems that nothing stirs, only the wind.
The clouds moved ever so slow across the sky giving long stretches of warm sunshine. But the cold clung to the land, with powdery snows caught in the grasses and low spots.
Near to the mountains there is a valley. It is broad across through the foothills. And lazily through it the muddy river winds its way.
YOYO. As if the beast were living, with all of its movements and sounds and smells.
A style, a beauty, and just enough chrome to catch the eye. The old red Plymouth sits in the small town on the high plains of Wyoming.
The springtime songs of birds fill the air. And there is a muffled rush of the waters as the Powder River flows northward toward Montana and the Yellowstone River.
The hillside overlooks a valley where there is a river that flows quietly. Out of the nearby mountains the waters of the river fell and raged downward through a canyon, but they flow quietly now through the foothills near the hillside.
And in the distance the wind stirs the dry powdery snow making a haze. Though it is cold the sun is intense and bright in the afternoon sky giving a sense of warmth.
Through the hills they wind, bands of steel. Laid out with a careful plan, to follow a grade, and never too steep. Snaking along on a pathway.
From the first note there is togetherness. A journey of time and harmony and energy that wanders and meanders around and through all.
On the red rock road the sun is warm, the rainstorms have passed and the meadowlarks sing their simple song.
A simple commandment of field work is to always leave gates as you find them. And to some a wide open gate is the same as a sign stating "Welcome Friends - Hunt & Fish."
And when the empty coal train roared by it left trails of light marking its course. And a four wheeler left the bar and rolled along the road.