The Girl Who Waits for CowboysOut there somewhere her metaphysical cowboy loops a leg over the dusty saddle and guides his horse through the gate towards her. She gazes through the glass doors to a point on the green horizon as if her eyes were projectors of light instead of receptors. Leaning forward, hands at her sides, body straight, she waits. Loose jowls flapping, galloping over the green toward a lone building on the horizon, the dog's legs, ears, and tail scramble like eggs to keep him upright. Her cotton dress wisps around her thin legs. Her floppy, green hat sits on her head like an upturned flower pot. One black boot taps rapidly. Tough and tattooed, she's the model of a frontier woman. As he approaches, saliva whips off his long tongue like wave tips blown back. He's a gold streak bolting across the grass. She leans further forward and sees a growing dark spot on the horizon. Her cowboy will wear leather and tassels, talk about big things: big cars, big cows, big fields, big America, big green. The dog runs on not caring about the mud and the dirt and the clouds and the price of hay -- caring that his tail is wagging in the wind. The spot grows bigger. Her foots stops tapping. She bends her eyebrows into a wave. She turns and leaves and drives away. He crosses the field like a rug shaken out in the sun. Too awkward to stay upright, he tumbles to the ground with a yelp. Today is not the day for cowboys. |