A late afternoon settles over a western landscape, the kind where the world feels like it’s gently exhaling. The earth seems to tip toward the setting sun, and the hills themselves lean back as if easing into rest. Cedar trees clutch the slopes, their dark shapes anchored against the fading light. Down in the valley, a drift of smoke rises, softening the whole scene in haze. Then the image shifts into something wonderfully tender: the sun becomes a pinto horse, dappled with light and shadow, nickering softly as it steps over the gate of a home corral. There’s no grand drama here, just the quiet pull of evening and the comfort of return. The speaker isn’t just watching a sunset—they’re feeling it as a kind of homecoming, a familiar creature ambling in for the night. The mood is still and rooted, one of deep belonging to a place where even the hills have body language and the sun knows where it belongs.
Afternoon — Summary
Earth tips to the west And the hills lean backward — Cedar-trees Hugging the hillsides. Smoke drifts in the valley — The pinto sun Nickers over the gate Of the home corral.