Years have etched the miles in the canyons of his face,
Fingers gnarled and twisted, his back set in a brace
His mind got stuck at thirty, his body eighty-five.
All things told, I reckon, he is lucky he’s alive.
He’d gone to school just long enough to learn to read and write
And always figured better things were just beyond his sight.
He’d taken up the cowboy trade, it let him move around,
Freedom was his calling, he was always outward bound.
He plied his skills wherever he could find a horse and cow
And always left before he had the chance to learn to plow.
But years were in a long trot, bringing on impending truth
Leaving tracks between the now, and where he left his youth.
His body finally gave it up and stuck him on the ground
Where wheels became the only means for him to get around.
His memory got all shuffled, simply muddled up in time,
He’s living in the moment, back when he was in his prime
He saddled up this morning, headed out for Chico Flat,
He’s tending to some heifers there, on brome and Winterfat.
Yesterday was Brush Creek, he summers yearlings there
Before, it was a calving job, then Elko County Fair.
He’s starting colts in Weston, hunting mavericks on the Blue,
Packing salt to Winter Camp, then branding with the crew.

Some morning he will saddle-up the horse that no one knows
And ride out for the country where the unleashed spirit goes.
He’ll start again to drifting, go to trotting ‘cross the land
Where freedom for his soul is found within a cowboy band.


© by Tom Sharpe.
Used with the author’s permission.