Winds pick up on the Pilot Valley,
Howl across the Pequop Range.
The moonlit twilight purple summer evenings
Leave you with a feeling both beautiful and strange
Hot and dusty Winnemucca,
Murmurings give way to spring,
The sweet scent of ranchers’ Ag burns
And the rabbit brush and sage turning green.
The California Trail beckons still,
Like it called the ambitious travelers of old.
It sings songs of dreams and graves,
It waits for some one to hear them told.