Women and Horses
The river’s relentless in falling and turning
to make its escape from the mountain terrain.
Then, seemingly tired of its tumb’lin and churnin’,
It slows for a rest as it spreads ‘cross the plain.And then, where it widens in cool, rocky ripples,
Where eons of floods made the wide valley floor.
As sunlight through pines paints in dapples and stipples,
A woman looks out from the rough cabin’s door.
The sun and the wind have both left their mark.
They burn her and lash her from daybreak ‘til dark.
It’s tough to compete with natural forces.
This country’s sure tough on women and horses.
She looks ‘cross the meadow where cattle are grazin’,
knee deep in the grass growing tall, thick, and green.
The fine, blooded mares and the foals they are raisin’,
go on with their common-place daily routine.
And far down the meadow, she sees the old gelding,
a pensioner here to live out his life. Like her, this old pony is tired and aging,
but pensions aren’t paid to a cattleman’s wife.
There’s chores every day; her work never stops.
There’s no time for rest and she works til she drops.
She’s not keepin’ score but she wonders who’s winnin’.
This country’s sure tough on horses and women.
Her face, once so soft, has been taken by wrinkles, her hair,
once her glory, is frosted with gray.
Her eyes are surrounded by crows’ feet and crinkles,
And youth fades a little with each passin’ day.
But now, from the doorway, she spots the lone rider,
she thinks of the obstacles they’ve overcome.
and she smiles at the thought that he’ll soon be beside her,
and scorns that old adage repeated by some.
Life’s tough in this land, no one can deny,
but she’s got fresh air, the grass and the sky.
She scorns city life and haughty discourses.
This country’s just right for women and horses.