the poet writes their songs in blood - prequel
(a yellowstone story, eventual walker x oc)
Cowboys aren't often poets anymore. It’s a thing of the past, sitting against an old, sturdy tree with an old, sturdy horse beside you, and letting the words of your heart flow out. Men, they don’t speak, or hell, even write, of emotions these days. When cowboys are poets, though, they sure as hell are good ones. Not always the best cowboys, but often the best poets. It’s almost like they’re chosen now, a few special cowpoke who are given the ability to look out on a great vast of beautiful land, of the work they do, and speak of it in riddles with a beauty others just don’t understand anymore.
Dylan is a poet, and thankfully, not a man. Often, she wonders if that’s why she’s allowed to be both a good cowboy and a poet. Though no boy, it’s foolish for her to be called anything but a cowboy with the work she puts in, and the time she’s given. The time she continues to give, and will always give to the Yellowstone. Dylan Allman, she’s a damn good cowboy, and a poet stuck in the Yellowstone, surrounded by nothing but Montanan mountains, plenty of land, and no other poets.
The Yellowstone is as much like any other ranch as it isn’t. It has the mountains seen for miles and miles throughout the beauty of Montana, the silence the plains hold, the wind whispering in the trees, of course, cattle, and the same wandering ranch hands with no other experience but cowboy work.
It’s never been quite clear what it is, but something, something, on these acres is different. The air screams with a pollution, not from the new age, or the carbon footprints of the world, but instead, with a stench of dread and unwelcomeness. The trees here, something else whispers alongside them in the wind.
Dylan had felt it the second they stepped foot onto the Yellowstone, all those years ago.
The mountains suddenly felt taller, as if they were placed right there, just right there, to avalanche and push everyone from its surroundings. The thousands, hell, more like millions, of oaks sway with the wind, ready to crack down on top of their next victim. Dylan knew that the land wanted nothing but loneliness and peace, but no one else seemed to understand that. With distress, and heartache, the land tells you you’re not welcome. The Duttons, though, they keep staying.
Sometimes, on the rarest occasion when there are no cattle problems, and no busy work, and the other Yellowstone inhabitants aren’t in sight, everything is silent — steady. Peaceful. The land, without the forced entrees and employees who can’t feel its life, is the most beautiful thing you could think of landing your eyes on. Dylan likes to take off on these days, out on the same horse she’s rode for a decade, and ride into the mountains, no longer waiting for them to topple down. Sometimes, she’ll even walk the whole way to feel the loneliness that can’t be felt at the ranch.
Even if the Yellowstone has a way of making you feel unwanted, Dylan has nowhere else to go, and no one else to turn to. The Yellowstone is what she has come to know as home for much longer than the traveling ranch hands that often pass through, with the exception of Rip and Lloyd, of course, two men they get along with greatly. Most of the time, anyways — Rip can be a real big asshole. Dylan continues through her days with a stone in her gut, but a stomach full of food and a place to sleep, even if sleep doesn’t come often.
Days are quiet, meaningless, and quick in passing. Dylan knows that these men she works beside don’t understand. These men, who will see an ounce of attraction and pry off of nothing but that, are not worth any time. Staying alone, though it makes days quiet, meaningless, and quick in passing, is better than a man who doesn’t understand.
A poet she is, so a poet she’ll wait for.