Our window into the past, our remembrance of the old time ones and the vaquero way.
Their bridle bits, their Nevada cheek spades.
Where have they all gone?
I know they are here, I have seen them on the hilltops.
I have seen their horses dancing, their manes in witch knots.
I have seen them smiling beneath a mustache and palm leaf.
So where are they now?
Why can't I see them?
Where do their horses graze?
Where has their bridles and romals been laid?
Where do their saddles set?
The stars whisper a hint of them.
Of where they lay in the deep of night; though none can ever tell.
Forever a wanderer, never let to stay.
The range is their only home, their only way of staying sane.
The solace they find is their greatest dream.
For they are always setting a horse, always with an unbroken soul.
Their hearts are gone to a long lost love and her whispering is the prairie's lull.
They mumble 'good morning' through grains of chew and coffee grinds.
Uttering to the ponies they call theirs for the time.