(A mother dies leaving her young son

to come to terms with the loss.

In remembrance of Fiona Chappel,

for her sons Tyler and Oliver.)



I was barely 13 years old

She came out of the Guadalupe's on a night so cold

Her coat was frosted diamonds in the sallow moon's glow

My silver palomino

Sixteen hands from her withers to the ground

I lie in bed and listen to the sound

Of the west Texas thunder roll

My silver palomino

I track her into the mountains she loved

Watch her from the rocks above

She'd dip her neck and drink from the winter flows

My silver palomino

Our mustaсeros were the very best, sir

But they could never lay a rope on her

No corral will ever hold

The silver palomino



In my dreams bareback I ride

Over the pradera low and wide

As the wind sweeps out the draw

'Cross the scrub desert floor



I'd give my riata and spurs

If I could be forever yours

I'd ride into the serrania where no one goes

For my silver palomino

Summer drought come hard that year

Our herd grazed the land so bare

Me and my dad had to blowtorch the thorns off the prickly pear

And mother, your hand slipped from my hair



Tonight I wake early the sky is pearl, the stars aglow

I saddle up my red roan

I ride deep into the mountains along a ridge of pale stone

Where the air is still with the coming snow

As I rise higher I can smell your hair

The scent of your skin, mother, fills the air

'Midst the harsh scrub pine that grows

I watch the silver palomino