The great western expanse
as I’ve ever known it since my youth
paints vast murals of slender green and rolling gold;
the moving picture of choice for the well-seasoned traveler.
 
Yet such beauty comes second place to my recollection
when placed against the eternal stares of collective memory;
fading builds of plastic and plywood
held together with bonds of love and ceremony
that fickle strands of twine could never hope to imitate.
 
Those watchmen of the hills speak through their solidarity
that we do not share similar fates;
the message in their chant seems clear.
 
In the discord of the daily drive, it is ever easy to dismiss
the world around us, to appreciate the good grace of the moment
so taken are we, that we are wholly unprepared
when our journey comes abrupt to its finale.

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