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Western Hills

A hill, out West, grows lanky and lean,
No soft grass on it, no flabby green,
Sun-tanned, wind-wrinkled, leather-skinned land,
Tough and wiry as an old cow hand.

In lonely silence it rides the range,
Day in and day out, without a change,
Watching over sagebrush, keeping stray
Live-oak trees from wandering away.

From dawn to dark, always astraddle
The gaunt-ribbed desert’s dusty saddle,
Rides the sky’s blue range, rides far and wide
With only its shadow at its side.

November 1, 1952, The Saturday Evening Post

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