Riding the Wind

Americana, folk, western, bluegrass influences

February 25, 2025 at 6:10 PMv4

-----------✨-----------✨----------
 
I saw him ride in past sundown,
boots heavy with miles, dust clinging like old regrets.
Didn’t say much—never did—
just slid a coin across the bar,
his duster hanging loose, sun-bleached and tired.

They called him The Drifter,
though if he had a name, he’d long forgotten it.
Didn’t ask, didn’t answer,
just took jobs, enough coin to keep moving,
enough whiskey to quiet the past.

He moves like the wind through the valley~
never staying long enough to leave a mark.
One eye on the road, one ear on the silence~
just the crickets, just the sky.
Not lost, not searching, just gone~

I watched him mend his coat,
steady hands, thread pulled from an old saddlebag.
Like a man who’d stitched himself together,
too many times to count.

Nights were his only refuge, stretched under an open sky,
no roof, no walls—just the hush of night.
He stared at the stars like they held a story he almost remembered.

Some say he was running~
But you can’t run from something,
when you stopped caring where it follows~

By morning, his tracks were gone,
swallowed by dust and silence.
Just a whisper left in the air—
of leather, of sweat, of quiet.

Copyright © Anima Libera suno.com/@animalibera Thank you for listening 💖 -----------✨-----------✨---------- I saw him ride in past sundown, boots heavy with miles, dust clinging like old regrets. Didn’t say much—never did— just slid a coin across the bar, his duster hanging loose, sun-bleached and tired. They called him The Drifter, though if he had a name, he’d long forgotten it. Didn’t ask, didn’t answer, just took jobs, enough coin to keep moving, enough whiskey to quiet the past. He moves like the wind through the valley~ never staying long enough to leave a mark. One eye on the road, one ear on the silence~ just the crickets, just the sky. Not lost, not searching, just gone~ I watched him mend his coat, steady hands, thread pulled from an old saddlebag. Like a man who’d stitched himself together, too many times to count. Nights were his only refuge, stretched under an open sky, no roof, no walls—just the hush of night. He stared at the stars like they held a story he almost remembered. Some say he was running~ But you can’t run from something, when you stopped caring where it follows~ By morning, his tracks were gone, swallowed by dust and silence. Just a whisper left in the air— of leather, of sweat, of quiet.