I was meandering the river’s edge, not so much marking time, but sweating in the heat of the afternoon. I glanced up. There was a woman, a girl, female, whatever, of an undetermined age, although, I’d guess twenty-plus. She had on pointy boots. Cowboy boots. No spurs rattling like sabers, but that brand of jeans that are loose and tight. Loose at the bottom, “boot-cut,” but exceedingly form-fitting further up.
Appropriate appreciation for way she filled out the jeans, blue jeans, tight across the flank. There was a hand-tooled belt, through the belt-loops and that was secured by a large buckle, some gold worked into the design, the leather was laced and wrapped, and then she had on a yoke-cut shirt. Pearl, or faux-pearl snaps.
The whole outfit, a real cowboy outfit, was crowned with a large felt (beaver) hat, light tan shade, or brown, but with a good four-inch brim. There was a feather, to me, it looked like a turkey feather, but my straw brim has a grackle feather stuck in it. Me and Mr. Raven, we’re similar. Or so I’d like to believe.
I trailed along behind her, off to one side, sweating and silently taking a few surreptitious snapshots. None of the pictures were good, but they did remind me. Reminded me to describe what I saw, and then, as I was shambling along, wearing a loud print shirt, cargo shorts and a sandals? Reminded me how glad I was to live in place where where a cowboy hat, for that matter, full regalia? It’s more than okay, it fits in right.