|High in the Canadian Rockies is the last refuge for the old cowboy’s heart. Gone are the days of riding the range with abandon, gone too are the days of dreams. Man has come to the old west, bringing "civilization" on his terms.|
|The eagle no longer soars, his wings spread on the free winds; the wolf can no longer raise her whelps in peace. Man has come. Where once the mighty Lakota, the Osage, Piute, Blackfoot, and all of Mother Earth’s own, respected the land now runs the asphalt road and steel rails. Cities stand where once the buffalo roamed free. Towns now dot the land where lodges once stood.|
|The once fresh air fills with smoke, the sounds of shots as the casual hunter kills for pleasure breaking the silence that once filled these sacred lands. Mother Earth cries to see what man has done to her spirit places, signs proclaim ‘Gas Here, Best Hot Dogs in Town” where the sacred sage was once burned.|
|Like the wolf, the people must now flee ever north and west to escape this disease called man. Canada calls, wrapped in the cold snows of winter, warmed by the long suns of summer, peace lay. And there too, is the call of the cowboy’s quest, for love comes on the promise in the gentle heart of that far away Canadian girl.|
© 2004/2010 David L. Griffith
|The old cowboy, like all of the people finds that peace can only come with surrender to the call of sacred lands. So he shall saddle for one last ride, a ride following the fleeing path of the wolf. The pathway which will only end when he rests within the arms of his dreams.|
Mail To The Cowboy
"There is no cure for birth and death
save to enjoy the interval."
Text © by PalletMaster's Workshop®.
Graphics by Martyca