Old black horse, tennis shoes.
I was ten, give or take a year or two,
driving cows and calves up Greasy
well-before they built the dam.
Dad hollering at the bunch splitting,
at me, at God, at everything.
You asked me then when we were done,
if I wanted to be a cowboy?
Tear streaks dried like a second skin,
I cried, “No!” and meant it—
horseback, just below Spoon Rock.
Amid the green, we have become old men,
of all the things we could have been,
going slow, just below Spoon Rock.
drycrikjournal 
This was gr8. Amazing how a boy and even older, often don’t realize what has grown in our hearts.
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And there you are where you are meant to be. Beautiful post!
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Hoo boy. Got me again. Simple, honest, reflective. Think I’ll go sit and knit and ponder a bit. Happy Sunday.
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You and Clarence won’t ever get old. That being said that was beautiful.
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Yeah, what a nice thought, Caleb. This morning I felt like I was 80 for about an hour. 🙂 It just takes a lot longer to get limbered up. My mantra’s become: lean forward, short steps until the work is done.
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Vivid, moving, excellent. How the years collapse in retrospect. And isn’t it good that we can’t see the future? Happy Thanksgiving!
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