"Round the Campfire"

With hats pulled low over tanned, weathered faces...

We are sittin' 'round a campfire swappin' tall tales of a glorious time. With hats pulled low over tanned, weathered faces, we sit quietly listenin' to colorful tales of broncs busted and cowboys thrown.

I'm starin' at the fire, waitin' for the next cowboy to begin, when in a voice soft and low he says, "Oh Lord, I've never lived where churches grow. I love creation better as it stood that day You finished it so long ago and looked upon Your work and called it good."

"A Cowboy's Prayer" recited by none other than Badger Clark himself. I must have died and gone to Cowboy Heaven to be sittin' here with the likes of these.

Before I know it they are lookin' at me, waitin' to hear what story I have to tell. In terror I search my memories for a thread to grab hold of to spin into a yarn. Of cows, horses, grass and hay I have much to say, but it sticks in my throat and all I can do is choke. My face turns red, as I wave my hands in the direction of the campfire, complainin' of the smoke. With knowin', sidelong glances at one another, they grin and nod.

With not much more than a whisper I begin to speak. Tellin' of the time I sat 'round a campfire with the greatest cowboy poets of all time.

I wake with a start, relieved at first, to find it was all a dream. But after a while, I realized it would have been nice to know what they thought of my tale.