JB you asked the question, now that I am not in a tractor, but I have alot of windshield time, I try to be constructive with my time unlike some on here.
LIFE IN THE BULL MOUNTAINS
You asked of us this question, should it be mountains or the plains,
The question could be easier, winter snowfall or spring rains?
The grandeur of the mountains, the valleys and spring creeks,
Cannot take precedence, over a place that won’t rain, weeks upon weeks.
But yet I have never seen, a place that God did not grace,
Every single landscape I’ve seen, you’ll see a smile upon its face.
The sunsets on the prairie, are the prettiest of them all,
But you should see the moon rise, on the mountains in the fall.
The hoar frost on a clear day, when living way up North,
Makes the meaning of getting by, quickly take forth..
The timeliness of a good rain, when living without mountains,
Means more on the plains, living without natures fountains.
Drought can set in and leave you with no recourse,
You may have to sell off your all your cows, even your best horse.
The people from the East, have their sights set on the best,
The tallest and the fanciest, of “their” own, newly found West.
I choose to stay here where I am, I’ve found myself a home,
No longer will I be adrift, no more looking for a place to roam.
We’re far away from a paved road, with creeks for people to fish,
You would have to drive along ways, to find sushi for a dish.
It’s 40 miles to the nearest store, we grow our own it’s true,
These people from the city, they think it’s delivered to you.
Lettuce, melons, and tomatoes, ripened on the vine,
We have grown accustomed, to homemade beer and wine.
The Bull Mountains give us all, that we can possibly stand,
The Ponderosa pines, the rocks, formed from ancient sand.
The sunsets can be tangerine, across an open sky,
Make all that I am seeing, more candy for the eye.
I grew up in the land of rivers, water, mountains are a jagged peak,
Now living in a place with no mountains, where the rain gods rarely speak.
You can get up on the highest hilltop, and look out towards the East
And not see anything to do with man, only the pleasures of God’s beasts.
You can watch the moon come up, above the grove of Pine,
You can see for miles, no distraction, coming from some neon sign.
During the quiet of the evening, no planes, no trains, no automobiles,
Only the sounds of birds calling, their music and their shrills.
I have grown some roots into these rocks, down into this sandstone,
Only with the help of my family, never could of done it on my own.
There is no place prettier, than what a man calls his own,
And there is no place better, than what a woman calls her home.
When I should die and complete, my whole circle in this life,
I leave these directions for my children, my friends and my wife,
Scatter my ashes across the Bull Mountains, the pine and it’s sandstone,
Let me invigorate this place, I will ever call my home.