It was an open field between the mountains.
Everything was covered with snow and ice;
with the sun being hidden
above the silver clouds.
In a gap in the distance,
between the stone, white mountains,
a man on a colossal stallion emerged
from the dark green frosted pine trees.
He was wearing a black
pinstriped vest and pants.
Beneath the vest,
the man wore a clean
white dress shirt,
all under a grand,
charcoal colored fur coat;
widening his shoulders as though a Goliath.
He had a dark brown goatee,
black bow tie, and green eyes;
of which were covered by the brim of a bowler's hat.
He could not have been more than thirty-five.
The man had a mysterious smirk,
as though he was angered,
yet content; a sort of smile.
In the left side of his mouth
was a neatly rolled cigar,
and on his red-brown leather belt,
a shiny nickel colt .45 rested firmly in the holster;
with silver bullets lined up
upon the right side of it.
He stopped at the foot bed of a frozen pond,
crouched down, wiped away the snow,
and gazed through the thick ice,
into the dark, deep blue,
uncanny pond.
He watched the gray fish serenely swim by.
There was a chill in the air,
with the wind absent.
The man looked up
at the pallid, icy scenery;
then looked back into the dark, cold water,
and began to cry.
The tears froze on the lake, and then
blended with the frost.