Wednesday, September 19, 2012

In a Little Chilly Aired Bunkhouse

Sometimes I just can't wait for the morning when I wake up in a little, chilly aired bunkhouse.
Lean myself up against the old wood frame around a window, gaze out at a sunrise over fields and a little old barn.
Peer out at my string of horses through foggy glass and smile as they nip at each other in a half hearted fight for hay.
Little moccasin slippers on my feet and the floor creaks beneath me.
Steaming coffee in the pot and fresh biscuits out of the oven.
With a little drizzling honey.
Crisp, cold jeans slipped over white legs and a wool sweater pulled over messy tied hair.
Boot heels tap the floor and my spurs ring their morning cry when my foot slips tight into my boot.
Cold hands with painted red nails, an old felt hat setting lightly on top my head while I sip at my coffee, still gazing through that window.
Thinking to myself how nice that colt is coming along, then grab my chaps and head out the door.
A little filly lets out a squeal and I slip a halter on a solid built gray gelding.
He's got a frisky look this morning, just the way I like em;)
And he tosses my a funny look when a pad slaps down on his back, a buckaroo saddle just after it.
The day, bright, hopeful and promising.
The air, crisp and sweet, with a lingering scent of horses.
The day's work smooth, graceful and pleasing, then we ride back to the barn.
Sun setting over distant mountain peaks and I crack an old Will James book open as I rock in an old rockin' chair.
I've read it before but Smoky The Cowhorse has won my heart time and time again.
So I let this day drift into night.
And I let myself be carried off into "The Will James Days" rockin' next to a wood stove.
And my heart smiles and my mind thinks that Smoky is just like that nice little colt in the corral.
And all is well with a little cowboy-girl.

~Gussie Lou Lou

Tuesday, September 18, 2012

On The Gather

Fresh morning air stinging my lungs,
A brisk step in my pony's walk.
Beauty surrounding me in every single direction.
My hand was meant to mold around rawhide reins,
My boots were meant for thick banded spurs.
A whirlpool of thoughts spin through my mind,
We break trot on an old cattle trail through Aspen trees.
Foxy, sorrel ears pin toward a snapping twig up among the pines,
Momma cows line out on a fast trot at the sight of me trotting through the meadow.
Cheerful laughter echoing through the wind,
A colt whistles a snort out into the valley.
A little girl flashes a shivering grin as she sets atop her cowboy pony,
Baby boy sitting in front of his mom on a big yellow gelding.
And everything in the world seems right, right here.
In a little valley on stout ranch mounts, among the trees, the cows and a tumbling creek.