Eight Miles Left

With ten more miles of fence line

my horse wants to turn back

 

There’s storm clouds over the mountain

just a small tent in my sack

 

The fence line sits all busted

from two bulls that went astray

 

They both missed being neutered

last year on roundup day

 

My hands are cold and blistered

that salve jar all but gone

 

Two wolves begin to howling

that lonesome prairie song

 

The storm clouds now have thickened

light pulls its covers back

 

Just one more night on the western slope

—with eight miles left to track

 

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2018)

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