The Drifter


The winds of the wasteland,
The acrid smell of rain.
Swaying of the Johnson grass
And storm clouds on the plains.
The beauty of the countryside,
There's nothing to compare.
The way the river makes its course
And clean,fresh mountain air.

I sit and watch the sunset.
I whistle a little tune.
And suddenly I'm answered,
To a wolf's howl to the moon.
The shadows of the treetops
Against a crooked sky
I sit and watch the midnight stars
As time goes crawling by.

You learn to love this wild land
And all it throws your way.
I'll be here til the sun comes up
And then be on my way

Poem Rating:
Click To Rate This Poem!

Continue Rating Poems


Share This Poem