“Four strong winds that blow lonely.” He’d tasted them all, sand and salt, with dry mineral sting. But the fire in his eyes burned for things he had done and “The good times are all gone.”
“One day they’ll sing.” He dropped his guitar, took the gun hanging low on his hip, weighing steady like music and strong like chords of a song.
“One day.” And the wind-devils floated like nymphs to his end. Beating hooves of the sheriff’s fine steed were his drums and the sun lent a singer.
Now he’s bending the trigger. He's bound for moving on.