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Seasons of
the Cowboy
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©1999, Michael S. Robinson
When drenchin' rains of
springtime, turn the rivers fast and brown,
and' wagons bog in heavy mud, returnin' from the town...
When sprays of gentle green adorn each graceful aspen branch,
the aging cowboy thrills at resurrection on the ranch.
The meltin' snow gets dimples, 'round the bold emergin' grass,
as goslings, fluffed in heavy down, attend their swimmin' class.
When bears have yawned and stretched, soaked up the radiant warmth of May,
the cowboy knows there's lots of work, and little time for play.
There's ridin' miles of fences--up the hogsback, down the draw--
his pliers pullin' wires, as he's relishin' his chaw.
There's pullin' calves, dehornin', and collectin' all the strays,
and lyin' in his bedroll by the fire's dyin' blaze.
Each evenin' he's dog-tired, but he taps an endless source.
(His rare complaints are saved for conversations with his horse.)
His wrinkled face gets coated with a crust of sweat and dust,
while puttin' off the things he likes, for doin' what he must.
The summer days seem endless, like an oven, set to broil.
Where trees are scarce, his hat's the only shade to cool his toil.
An' when he's near believin' his whole world is sure t' blanch,
ol' mother nature sends relief: It's autumn on the ranch.
With autumn's chill a nippin' at his heels, he stacks the hay;
drives critters to the railhead, in time for shipping day.
He fixes roofs, repairs the tack, and snugs each nail down,
an' rounds up his provisions at the general store in town.
Then, when the heat of summer's just a mem'ry of the past,
and autumn's rainbow Stetson's proven less than colorfast;
When frost has stripped the aspen leaves from ev'ry shiverin' branch,
the cowboy dreads what's comin', 'cause it's winter on the ranch.
All cooped up in that scanty shack can drive a man t' drinkin'
an' cussin' the thermometer, as mercury's a sinkin'.
It takes a darned good attitude to ride a winter out,
an' makes a feller understand what life is all about.
For, cowboys see the winter's face, far more than other men,
when frigid winds have driven south the robin and the wren...
When silenced are the summer's songs, and gone, the fall's refrain,
the cowboy sees that, hardship's part of any, worthy gain.
And, like his pa and grandpa, sleddin' hay to freezing cows,
he braves the storm and ain't afraid of snowflakes on his brows.
The long and thick and hard of it are his realities,
but sometimes it's so vicious, that it brings him to his knees.
And, as his pony braces, with her tail toward the gust,
the cowboy's breath floats upwards, sayin' "God, I've rarely cussed,
but this is just, plain awful, and could put me in the ground.
Please tell me, when I need you, that you'll always be around."
No sooner than he's finished with that prayer from his heart,
a calm transforms that stormy place and clouds begin to part.
The moon and stars, a twinkin' fall as glitter on the snow,
and, deep inside, that cowboy feels a reassurin' glow.
That break's his only answer in the howlin' storm above,
but, in the scene, surroundin' him, he feels the warmth of love---
like songs of serenadin' birds on ev'ry leafy branch.
And he's feelin' blessed, in spendin' one more winter on the ranch.
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