By Cris Paravicini
"Twas the heart of the night when a cry stirred the dark, From the bundle
held snug in her arms. And the young mother vowed to do what she could, To
keep her young child from harm.
One hand stroked a pup as it moved to her side, He whimpered, then
nuzzled her son. "You rascal," she said, "better rest while you can, Lots to
do 'fore the morrow is done."
Now, they're four years old and always they play, Together, the folks
pride and joy. With a mimicking whoop they lope 'round the yard, The
stickhorse, the dog, and the boy.
And when the stickhorse stumbles and falls to the ground, To the end the
young cowboy rides. Then lifting his eyes, he howls to the moon, 'Cause at
four the pain's hard to hide.
At eight years old his white pony bucks; Once more he furrows the dirt.
The dog licks his face while Mom dusts his hat, And a tear is wiped on his
shirt.
A crimson sunset in the fifteenth year, Saw the cowboy, old dog, and a
lass. She squeezed tight his hand; frail dog licked his cheek, One last time
as life came to pass.
Anguished sobs could be heard over meadow and stream, Near the cow herd,
the mountains, and pine. For the dog was his comrade, his partner, his pal,
From their birth, everyday, till this time.
It's a decade plus ten and the range seems to sing; Our cowboy is coming
of age. Tears fill his eyes as kind lass takes his name, And their love
writes the next history page.
Through thirty-and-some, the good years rolled by, Three babies and
nature played fair. The cattle were fat and the streams ran bank-full, Happy
tears and glad cheer filled the air.
When our cowboy's fortieth birthday was near, Ill-fortune shadowed the
land. The weight of bad luck tried to crumple the man; Tall and proud, it
was so hard to stand.
And the faithful, gray horse that he rode across time, Broke his leg in
mysterious way. And as cow prices fell in rhythm with tears, The drought
took its toll on his hay.
Like the workteam he'd lost to a strange, equine flu, Tired family pulled
more than its share. In his fiftieth year, his last parent died, Who
promised this life would be fair?
They should've been called the glory years, As he entered his sixth
decade, But, the government ruled "for-the-good-of-mankind," And it took the
existence he'd made.
When eighty-one winters had come and gone, For the lass who had dried
every tear, She followed his dog and his horse to the stars, To abide with
the ones he holds dear.
Now, in memory he dwells with his boyhood and pup, And his mate with the
strawberry lock; And the promise God made many centuries ago, That once
more, side by side, they'd all walk.
All the years washed with waters of sadness and joy, Strong currents of
life, low and high. And mighty the man from whom teardrops fall, Yes, even
the cowboy will cry.
