The sun squints, clouds
rollin’ in
Smell it coming, carried on wind.
Sprinkle, drizzle, hanging there.
Its in currents. Moist full air.
Button up, tie it down.
Storms coming. Hear its sound.
Droplets drip on my Rodeo King,
splatter my slicker, it begins to sing.
Branches break. Crops sway.
Sweet torrents drown sound away.
Pouring puddles, carving ruts.
Cow dogs, just drenched mutts.
Cross the creek and up the hill,
it’s bringin’ cold, feel the chill.
Mud squishes with each stride,
steady, the big Quarter’s Cadillac ride.
Collar up. Saddle creakin’.
Murky sight. Boots leakin’.
Drop my blade in the muck.
Wise guy chimes ‘nice day for duck’.
‘No kiddin’, heard that before.
Bucket rain, big floods...great lore.
Flora and creature soaked in strain.
Mostly I enjoy it, old bones though pain.
Flash and rumble from dark sky.
Likely a message from on high.
"Here’s your water, mind it well."
Life without is dust bowl hell.
Gone as quick as it came.
Nothing untouched, not the same.
The aroma, it lingers still.
Just weather, or God’s will?
© 2008, Mark Munzert
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted
without the author's written permission.
Mark comments:
"Ranch Rain" was inspired by the wind through the trees of the
Adirondack Mountain home of the Circle B Ranch. I was pleased to share
the sacred bond of man and horse and the ways of a cowboy as a
wrangler upon a trail ride as gusts brought rain and we hands scurried
to get city slickers back to the ranch. Nearing the end of the trail I
could see the flash of heat lightning, smell the moisture in the air,
and feel the wind kick up. I tugged my brim down and threw my slicker
on as I watched a white-tail disappear into the woods. The clouds
began to empty as we turned and crossed the creek back toward the
barn. I squinted through the blowin’ rain as I watched preparations
being made ahead. We made it in just in time to ascend the porch, pull
up a rocker and enjoy the storm’s beauty.
When I cross over and
then come back
Gonna be a bronco with rider on back.
Waitin’ the chute with a smiling heart,
"This 'poke won’t finish, he’ll barely start."
Back to the ranch, a parcel, my own.
Buff, tough, quarter. Handsome and roan.
Withers to haunch, big, full and round.
Likely the strongest pound for pound.
Eyes deep, lively, and telling.
People, some close. Others, send yelling.
I move pure, regal, honest and true.
Knowin’ cowfolk turn for a view.
The mares love me an’ the fillies flirt,
Foals look up, "Howdy Squirt."
Ain’t jus’ brawn but whole lotta head.
Out brain ya, toss ya, leave ya fer dead.
Snort, stomp, buck, an prance.
Spur cowboy? Ain’t even a chance.
I work'd a few seconds. You was beat.
Run along buckaroo. Go have a seat.
Kicked up my heels, ornery an’ mean.
Damn, that was fun, good an’ clean.
All done here, another go.
Off to my custom trailer tow.
Another stop, another win.
Why ha never seed a horse grin?
Onto lush grass, cool water, an’ grain.
Rough stock life? Naw, the gravy train.
When I cross over and then come back
Gonna be a bronco, no rider on back.
© 2008, Mark Munzert
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted
without the author's written permission.
Mark told us this poem was "...inspired by a conversation I had
with a good friend. We were discussing the treatment of rodeo
stock at rodeos and less informed folks' impression of the 'poor
animals.' She thought it would be pretty cool to be a bucking
horse, 'they get fed well, travel the country, and only work for
about eight seconds at a time.'"
I began writing as a means
of self-expression in a journal and it has gotten to the point where I
write for enjoyment. I truly enjoy sharing my writings and am thankful for
the creative outlet it has provided me. Many of those I have shared with
have encouraged me to do more and I am currently compiling some of my
efforts. I am a proud "back-east cowboy" and appreciate and promote: the
tradition; the value-centric, pragmatic, disciplined, measured evolution;
and down-to-earth ways of cowboy life.
