 DESERT
COWBOY'S CHRISTMAS
The bells this cowboy's
hearin',
aren't off of any sleigh.
They're 'round the necks
of the old milk cows
comin' in for their
mornin' hay.
There've been other times
and places,
where there weren't
snowflakes fallin',
But he can't remember a
Christmas,
when there weren't
cattle bawlin'.
The desert air is chilled,
as daylight tints the
sky.
It's plenty cold enough
for frost
but the air is just
too dry.
Against the graying pre-dawn
there's a darker silhouette.
A remuda horse has just
come in,
but he can't tell which
one yet.
The faint scent of creosote
brush
drifts on the mornin'
breeze,
And prob'ly because of
the day
makes him think of
Christmas trees.
Pausing, he watches the
sunrise
break the hold of the
night.
Objects begin to emerge
from the dark
changing form in the
light.
Saguaro, arms reaching
skyward,
cottonwood trees, bare limbed.
A rooster up on the big
corral fence
sittin' there crowin' at him.
An old cow begins to bawl,
knowin' it's time for feed.
He breaks the bales and
scatters the hay,
and the others follow her lead.
Cattle and man have a bond,
they've always been his life.
Over the years they've
taken the place
of a family and a wife.
As seasons follow seasons,
he's never changed direction.
Horses, cattle, and wide-open
spaces,
the "cowboy connection".
"Merry Christmas, Girls,"
he calls,
"here's a little extra hay.
An old cowboy likes to
do his part
to make this a special day!"
His Christmas seldom means
presents,
or bright lights on a tree,
More a time to pause and
reflect
on the way a man ought to be.
Some folks don't understand
this,
but it really isn't so strange.
It's what a cowboy's life's
all about,
to a shepherd of the range.
|
I'm
glad I still live where there's cowboys
These
same men are partial to pickups,
