On a dusty, vacant street,

an earie silence hovers.

Two men stand on opposite ends-

sizing up each other.


The townsfolk hide behind windows,

some peeking through cracked doors.

They all scattered quickly,

and now cluster in shops and stores.


Only these two remain,

their shadows, long on the ground.

As they slowly begin walking forward,

~spurs are the only sound.


Their sights remain fixed,

into each other's stare.

Both looking for any nervousness-

or apprehension there.


Keeping a steady pace,

with all the courage they can muster,

each one carefully lifts a hand-

and moves aside his duster.


Lying low upon their hips,

weathered from the sun,

each man wears a leather holster,

cradling their gun.


Both of them, stop right then,

boots rooted where they stand.

Their arms are poised at their sides,

~fingers twitching on their hand.


Waiting for a move from each other,

with still no sign of the law-

It'll come down to the one man,

who's quicker on the draw.


Then in an instant flash,

like that of a lightning bolt,

each man flicks a hand

___and fires off their Colt.




The air is thick and acrid,

the townsfolk filled with fear.

They curiously peer on out,

as the smoke begins to clear.


Only one man remains standing-

alive and still alert.

He survived the gunfight.

~The other lies prone, in the dirt.