In the Black Canyon of the Yellowstone,
where the river carves its restless song,
ancient rocks rise steep and bold,
and autumn’s fire colors the cold.
Golden leaves cling to branches tight,
flames against the slate-gray height,
as the water rushes, wild and free,
weaving threads of mystery.
The cliffs are scarred, the ages told
in every crack and rugged fold;
nature’s hand, both fierce and grand,
etched these walls from river and land.
The air is crisp, the world is still,
save for the murmurs of the chill
and the endless pulse of river’s roar,
a timeless tale on a stony shore.
In this canyon, wild and lone,
I feel the river’s strength as my own.
Here among the amber trees,
I find a quiet, fierce release.
Boneshakerbike 
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