It's dust, mostly
the kind that burrows
deep into the creases
of his forehead
and hides inside
the crinkles
around his eyes

It's forever stuck
to the soles of his boots
and never rinses out
of his denims
in the river,
not entirely

And it finds a way
to roll with beads
of sweat in dripping
lines exposing
parchment skin

but somehow never
penetrates the ring
around his head,
preserved forever
by his stetson's brim

And it's also ashes
from chaparral
and tumbleweeds,
lit up in circles
where he camped

leaving a trail
of where he's been,
like breadcrumbs
swept away in a
restless breeze

It's the creaking sound
of leather in his saddle
and the rhythmic
thud of horseshoes
pounding sunbaked ground

It's the wind in his face
that grits his teeth
and squints his
glassy eyes

It's standing in the stirrups
to fly above the racing plain,
keeping balance
with the whipping mane

It's the endless sky,
and the horizon
that never fades

But mostly,
it's the dust
that he holds
in upraised palms

slipping through
his fingers, disappearing
from his touch

in the wild and still
untamed range