An old cowboy's last roundup.
End of the Trail
An Old Cowboy Ponders his Mortality
The wild oats have gone all burnished gold now,
It seems the camp fire offers little heat;
The wind along the trail is growing cold now,
The sky is gray, the rain is laced with sleet.
Like ghosts the elk and deer drift down the slope now.
They’ll winter in the valley far below.
Instinctively they know there’s little hope now
Up here where savage winds begin to blow.
It was a pleasant season while it lasted,
And life was good for me and my old friend.
But spruce, by winters past all flagged and blasted,
Bear silent witness that all good times end.
And so I send my pony in a beeline
Down to the valley’s respite far below.
But I ... this is the year I stay at tree line ...
This is the year I dream beneath the snow.