The streets were damp with melting snow and Jupiter hung like a frozen drop near the moon. A muted trumpet wafted like smoke from a basement window. She glided past me on the empty street.
They call her Montana. She’s here for now but not to stay. Like a wild Mustang – free.
The city is her study. The streets, her inspiration. She’s following a thought, chasing an instinct.
It’s about the bright midday sun on desert sand.
It’s about sun dogs and dusty roads.
It’s about gypsy gold and buried treasure.
It’s about silver linings and grabbing the brass ring.
It’s about antique picture frames and quartz arrow heads.
It’s about candle lit bourbon and a pinto’s mane.
It’s about the cry of a puma and the glint off a flute.
It’s about selkie skin and mermaid hair.
She stopped at 7th and Christopher, looking for a time down the canyon of glass and stone. The lights changed and, in a moment, she was gone.