Snow, silent snow,
Fills every upturned leaf -
Flocks every twig and
Everything, everywhere;
A whiteish blessing
To wintry supplicants.
Animal. Vegetable. Mineral.
The horses lie low
In the loafing shed.
He comes twice a day
To break the ice
In the trough.
He hopes for better times.
He checks for soggy, rotting hooves.
He proffers half-a-carrot or a quarter
Of an apple. Alfalfa. A scoop of grain.
He checks for drafts.
Gives a hearty slap.
Squeezes an ear.
Snowbound, these horses, shifting
From one foot to another,
Listen for the sound of his
Four-wheel drive vehicle,
Each balancing one hind hoof
Exquisitely,
Gracefully,
Delicately - on point.
Can't go out of the barn.
Can't leave the loafing shed.
Crane their necks for a look up the road.
Every day, waiting for him.
Watching for him.
Listening for him.
Four weeks now.
Five weeks now.
Six weeks now.
Muscles sore from inaction.
Throbbing. White everywhere.
Permafrost.
The barn cat, Sugar, teetering
On the edge of the water trough, with
Frozen toes and matted, felted fur,
Laps water through the ice shards -
Purrs at Big Red in the last stall -
Big Red with the white blaze and
The one white stocking.
When he comes, he adjusts the Sunday
Radio to the Sunday Radio Preacher.
The horses, Big Red, Lonzo, Laramie,
And the two black quarter horses
Across the paddock, Misty and Poco -
And Sugar, the cat,
Listen to the Sunday sermons. This week
It's child abuse, adultery, AIDS, alcohol
Abuse. It's all trotted out before the
Horses and Sugar. From dawn to dusk.
Sunday sermons in the barn.
Preaching from the little tinny radio
Taped to a rafter. Turned very loud.
Fire and brimstone, is it?
The preacher, hoarse, manic, accusatory,
Pleading. Exhorting. Redemption.
Renewal. Flames. Burning bushes.
Unrepentant sinners. Hell. Perdition.
The horses blink in solemn wonder at
These loud, hot words
From the Bible Belt. They
Blow steam through their nostrils.
Shake their heads pensively.
Listen attentively.
Apprehensively.
And Sugar licks her paw.
On Sunday night, he comes again.
He turns the radio down a bit.
He changes the station to
Country Western music and
He turns on a 40-watt bulb.
It swings in an arc, back and forth,
Throwing strange, dancing, goblin shadows.
They all nod, the horses do,
And whuffle. It's dark outside and
The snow, silent snow, wafts down.
They all relax and point their
Hind hooves in that delicate way -
And Sugar licks her paw,
And curls into the hay.
“You can always tell an eastern dude”,
my Grandpa used to say.
“It’s not the way he looks or talks.
He thinks a different way.
But give the dude a couple years
of gripping leather reins;
and herding cattle all day long,
across the wind-swept plains;
of getting bucked off from his horse
and battered, bruised and skinned-
with mouth that’s full of prairie grit,
whipped up by flogging wind.
Give the dude a couple years
of forty-plus below;
of struggling to feed cattle
through six-foot drifts of snow;
of praying for an early spring--
just to face some flood,
and gully washers bearing down
on cattle mired in mud.
Give the dude a couple years
of calloused hands and sweat.
A couple years of all of this….
he’ll make a cowboy yet.
He’ll take the time to look around.
He’ll see a circling hawk.
He’ll take the time to listen
and he’ll hear the prairie talk.
The same old horse he used to cuss,
he’ll cherish as a friend.
He’ll stoke his fire contented,
when the day draws to an end.”
They rode into Montana with a pocket full of poor,
their appaloosa ponies and the homespun clothes they
wore.
What was it about Shaney Ridge
That drew the brothers there?
Clear springs of mountain water!!!
They glistened everywhere.
Through icy chills and six foot drifts,
Through mud and sleet and mire,
Across the range their claim spread out
from Shaney Ridge to Pryor.
None of it was easy.
One crisis spawned another;
But through it all good-humored George
cheered his worried brother.
Winters tortured Shaney Ridge;
and when the tenth one passed,
nature begged forgiveness
and the range thawed out at last.
Caleb’s spirit blossomed out
as soon as winter died;
and that spring,Caleb left the Ridge
to fetch a promised bride.
When Caleb and his bride returned,
two months had passed them by.
The parching sun was over head.
The water holes were dry.
The cattle languished on the range;
and George was not around.
As searing as a red-hot brand….
the note that Caleb found.
One night, it seeemed that George played cards
with other gambling men.
He lost his cash.and saddle.
He lost his horse…and then-
he bet the spread at Chaney Ridge.
He lost his bet again!
George wrote that he was leaving…
that someday when he’d earn
enough to buy their holdings back,-
then only, he’d return.
It took a while for all the words
to really filter through.
But when they did, the pain evoked
each curse that Caleb knew.
The dream called Shaney Ridge was gone
and Caleb had a bride.
So Caleb started over;
and hid the rage inside.
Slowly, slowly- years passed by;
as slowly as his ire;-
and just as slow, he gained control
of all the range near Pryor.
What became of Brother George?
Caleb never knew.
His brother simply vanished
like Rocky Mountain dew.
Just like the evanescent dew,
impossible to find;
yet when he viewed the Pryor spread,
George often crossed his mind.
He knew he’d chuck the lot of it-
each acre, steer and calf-
just to see George once again
and hear his brother’s laugh.
