The old man knows, looking up
across his dusty pen, ears alert,
head half-below his withers,
like a grandfather over spectacles,
watching me stir the gloaming,
light the barbecue for dinner,
say hello. No hurry now,
he holds this pose: a long paragraph
off his chest or the same sentence
I can only imagine, repeated—
but still can’t answer. He’s talking
over the fence and across
the brown Bermuda grass lawn—
the same look the Bay horse had
in his twenties that unnerved me
each time I haltered a dream
with younger horses. But this time
we both know we’re old.
for Red
drycrikjournal 
Very heart wrenching, John. Seems a lot of us are reaching for dreams in our old age. sally bates
May your day be filled with shining smiles! Date: Tue, 28 Jan 2014 12:07:58 +0000 To: cowboy.connection@hotmail.com
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Thanks, Sally. It’s taken some getting’ used to, but Robbin and I grow comfortable with ‘old and slow’. It may be the Golden Years begin with the joy of getting the day’s work done. And in that process, we still see things we’ve never seen before. We feel blessed despite these dry times.
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I remember the Bay, John – a great horse and a great friend! Hang in there – the weather’s a’changing!
Sophie
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