“Contrasting gold and silver,
in the near and farthest light,
the moon’s a yellow sliver
on a field of black and white.
Too soon the dawn is breaking
on the clean, new-fallen snow,
and I sit here, cold and aching,
for a time so long ago.
The howling winds are trying
hard to reach from shore to shore,
and the truth I’ve been denying
won’t stay hidden any more.
This bragging, store-bought hero
always ends right where I start,
and the morning sun means zero
to the darkness in his heart.
I hear sounds of saddle-leather
and then heavy, tired hooves
crunching through the winter weather
where an ancient spirit moves.
His clothes are torn and tattered,
never changing with the season,
but he always knew what mattered
and he always knows the reason.
So he smiles the stranger’s smile
and he rides from sea to sea.
Before you go another mile,
shoot straight one time for me?"
Hills close again in darkness,
lost in haze the purple west,
and, whistling through the blackness,
a night-hawk leaves her nest.
Drumming louder hoof-beats,
the jangling of spurs,
the thunder of his laughter greets
that famous smile of hers.
In black and white, the colours
are above them in the sky,
and they ride through heaven’s open doors
with a wild, triumphant cry.
I’d like to dedicate this one to Clint Eastwood, because I think he would totally get it.