Cowboy girl poem: Where I feel at home

May 15, 2015

                                                   Where I Feel at Home

I see my horse’s ears flick back and forth as we hit a long trot to ride our long day’s circle.

 Seeing the yearlings covering the rolling sagebrush country my young horse feels fresh as he eats up the range at the long stretched trot.

They are but distant specks about a mile off.

We see the creek trickling in the draw as we make our way across the rolling sage.

 As we draw near the critters, I run my calloused hands over my floral carved slick horn that feels smooth from all the poly ropes that have been stretched and burned across its mule hide wrap that was once fuzzy.

But now the fuzziness has long gone and is replaced with hide that is as slick as a silk ribbon.

My rough hands glide across the rigid poly aching for a yearling critter to rope.

I smell the sage that smells sweet as sugar.

The warm breeze drifts these satisfying scents through the air of the open range which makes me feel at home on the back of my colt.

As we cover the rough country I hear my hobbles tap against my carved back cinch that was made at the hands of Jeff Haslam.

I see my mecate sway back and forth and hear my horse’s steady breathing.

I listen to my horse’s hooves shake the ground with every lengthy unwavering stride as we follow the long narrow cattle trails.

 Every sound and movement falls into rhythm and becomes a happy tune to work to.

 I feel at home on the back of a snorty colt doing my job as a cowboy girl.

My Portfolio

Pushing cattle through the willows.

Watching the corner and counting cattle.

Trailing them into the  Big Horn headquarters.

Trailing into the rodear.

Tired cowpony taking a break in the desert sage.

A rodear being held in a valley.

The willow rider waiting for the signal to clean out the willow trees.

Looking off of Independence mountain.

Snowfall on the Elk Hollow Meadow.

Young cowgirl watching the broncs.