The Dying Sun and the Ranger

He is a ranger, staggering through the sunset glow. The dying sun still burns, his last pride burning low. White beard and old scars tell how long the road has been, how far he has come, and all that he has seen. He was a ranger, remembering days gone by. He sang alone in empty valleys, his song carried through the sky. Among the flowers he lingered, forgetting the road for a while, letting their brief bloom soften the wounds of the miles. He will be a ranger, where the road lies under sand. Beneath his weathered kerchief, his eyes search the yellow land. He asks not where the road will end, nor where his bones may lie, only that when his journey is done, he may rest beneath his homeland sky. He is a ranger now, standing in the journey’s final light. An oasis among the dunes, a half-moon rising into night. For freedom and for dreams he rode, from dawn across the boundless land, from the first light of the rising sun to a dying sun stained red with blood.