A wild, western heart.

A wild, western heart.

Sherbet skies on an autumn dawn, pouring down over a Sierra fog. One look to the east a desolate high desert backdrop; over low hanging abundance of life that does not cease. Often overlooked by human eyes. It knows no grief.

A glance to the west, a vertical peaking vantage of endless space. The Tahoe rim trail, full of wonder and such grace. Wild flower kisses lay upon a soft face.

The breath of mountain winds sing songs with the swiftness it gives, the meditative hymns, within the stillness it lives.

A turbulent but serene scene, chaotic peace between tumble weeds and pine trees. An imperfect harmony; Raw, untamed nature, incomparable beauty. A disengagement of everyday reality.

To the north a desert of black rock, rainbow geysers, to the south farmland and livestock. From cowboys to gangsters to hippies and street racers. The mentality is still wild, a home I’ve always known, it never grows mild.

Remnants of a westward expansion, an ever endearing frontier of destinies manifestation. A wild, western heart, needs no explanation. The rhythmic beat, pumping blood of pure imagination, enlightened inspiration.

A Reno city skyline, casino lights touch the midnight sky, intertwined; abandoned mines and ghosts towns that once thrived. This is the place I call home and it is mine.