Down the mountain, down
the four-wheel drive dirt track
to the asphalt that connects us
to home and families,
to basic urgencies far away
lost in time and space
beyond the whine of twine
around the heels of calves
stretched for branding—
when and where we are gods
for a moment, immune
to the insanities
of a civilized world.
All the old men gone
still lean against the boards.
I find my place among them,
whoop and illuminate
color with details,
hoping to see myself once more
stepping to the untamed rhythm
of heaven’s hoof dance.
drycrikjournal 
That leaves a tear in my eye, as I think of Grandpa, Dad and uncles that are still cheering on the ropers from afar! Heading to church to pray for all that came before and for us still leaning against the boards. Thanks, John
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