Born and raised in Wyoming,
with its miles and miles of space,
she thought nothing of a long horseback ride
just to get to town.

Though she grew up hardscrabble poor,
she loved that wide open land.
And when her new husband
moved her clear to California,
it tore at her heart to leave.
And she always believed
that a little part of her stayed behind.

She never got to go back.
But she was Wyoming tough,
and it's a good thing, too.
Because all these years,
her life never stopped being hard.

Yet she kept a smile
as broad as the Wyoming sky.
And I like to think
that wherever wildflowers
gentle the slopes of the Great Divide,
that's the part of Doris

that stayed behind.

Rae Turnbull

He could read the land.
Those two lane roads he liked to travel
gave him the opportunity to see what others miss.

He could tell you,
by the bend of the trees,
and the lean of the grasses laid down flat,
where the wind blew across a place.

If thistles were thick,
he'd know summer rains hardly ever came.
And the side of the barn
where paint was thin
told him where winter
stormed its way through.

Some called him a wizard because of this.
Usually the very same
who cursed those narrow old two lanes
for how they slowed a traveler down.

But he had learned a long time ago
that most of the wisdom a man might gain
is seldom found on the faster lanes.

Rae Turnbull