A mother dies leaving her young son to come to terms with the loss. In remembrance of Fiona Chappel for her sons Tyler and Oliver.. I was barely 13 years old. She came out of the Guadalupe's on a night so cold. Her coat was frosted diamonds in the sallow moon's glow. My silver palomino. Sixteen hands from her withers to the ground. I lie in bed and listen to the sound. Of the west Texas thunder roll. My silver palomino. I track her into the mountains she loved. Watch her from the rocks above. She'd dip her neck and drink from the winter flows. My silver palomino. Our mustaneros were the very best sir. But they could never lay a rope on her. No corral will ever hold. The silver palomino. In my dreams bareback I ride. Over the pradera low and wide. As the wind sweeps out the draw. 'Cross the scrub desert floor. I'd give my riata and spurs. If I could be forever yours. I'd ride into the serrania where no one goes. For my silver palomino. Summer drought come hard that year. Our herd grazed the land so bare. Me and my dad had to blowtorch the thorns off the prickly pear. And mother your hand slipped from my hair. Tonight I wake early the sky is pearl the stars aglow. I saddle up my red roan. I ride deep into the mountains along a ridge of pale stone. Where the air is still with the coming snow. As I rise higher I can smell your hair. The scent of your skin mother fills the air. 'Midst the harsh scrub pine that grows. I watch the silver palomino. Mustaneros: Mustangers. Pradera: Prairie. Riata: Rope. Serrania: Sierra. Prickly Pear: Cactus