Sheila's Dribs 'n Drabs

“Don’t fall off.” His broad back sways, smooth-haired, sweet-scented with hay. Hooves clop on turf then stray with her, smooth-haired, sweet-scented, mail-ordered bride. She stays.

The wind was howling, curtainless windows blanketed with snow. White lace faded to yellow in candle-light, almost beautiful, almost frost. The old lady at the table sat with knees together, politely tucked away, hands tearing crumbs from the last loaf of bread as she lifted them slowly to her mouth. Many settlers died that winter. Young hikers in bright modern parkas and boots ran to the cabin with glee. “Here it is! Just like in the photograph. Grandpa left Grandma behind and he never made it back, never forgave himself.” Then they buried her bones, eating sandwiches over the grave.

“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.