Golden canyons glistening in the sun, calling, beckoning, urging me on.

Mysterious mountains kissing the sky. Secretive shadows, whispering sighs,  Here am I, come and see. 

Rivers to cross, ridges to span before I can stand on this golden land.

When I arrive there what do I find? 
Canyons and valleys such as those left so far behind.

Looking back I see the game the light has played with me. 

Those old mountains and valleys gleam in the sun's westering glow just as these did before.

I sit on my horse and just shake my head, another dream gone from reality's hard scrabble bed.

I reckon I 'll take a look around.  See if I can find a good piece of ground. 

Live water, a shade tree, some pasture grass, maybe I'll find that place at last, and settle down.
 

© W.D. Chase 1998

Mesa (Spanish for table) and hill tops, distant ridges and valleys lie in the gathering dusk of evening.  Sandstone cliffs turn gold in the setting sun.  This view is looking southwest across the Grand Valley from a point near the base of Mount Garfield.  I would guess the far ridge line to be forty to forty five miles distant as the crow flies.