Stir Crazy and Saddle Sore

The ice laid claim to every road that morning

as the Pecos wind came howling, slick and mean,

shutting down southeastern New Mexico.

All hooves on frozen, snow packed dirt, no gates swinging,

just a house holding a man

who’s used to miles of sky

and the low bawling of a moving herd, finding out that

 “bunker down”

is a bitter tasting word.

But a cowboy’s hands don’t care for rest.

They crave a job to do.

So now the living room’s a workshop,

plywood laid out flat.

Many long days that saddle’s been with him,

worn paper thin where the miles laid heavy.

So he replaces what time took,

with a steady hand and a sharpened blade.

He carves the heavy hide,

building back the rig

for the next time he can ride.

Outside, the roads are slick as glass,

the cattle huddle low.

But inside, there’s a purpose

that winter cannot slow.

For when the sun breaks through the clouds

and the ice begins to run,

that saddle will be ready

for the work that’s to be done.