It is just the beginning of the fall season and seems a long time until spring. My cousin, Ken Moreland wrote a poem that might give us hope that spring is coming.
THE SANDHILLS IN THE SPRING by Ken Moreland
A toenail moon is hanging
Low in a champagne sky.
A fire burns in front of me.
My horses graze nearby.
The smell of wild flowers
Rides in on a cool night breeze.
You can almost smell spring coming
Through the rustling of the leaves.
I smell my supper cooking,
It’s just a steak and beans,
But as I look around me,
I feel like a man of means.
When the spring rains come early
And the grass is a sea of green,
The beauty of the Sandhills
Is the best I’ve ever seen.
Just down the fenceline
I hear a robin sing.
There’s very few things finer
Than the Sandhills in the spring.
When you hear the cattle bawling,
With dust thick in the air,
When you’re nearly blinded
By sweat and burning hair,
Though the sweat runs down your forehead,
Smoke makes your eyeballs sting,
You can’t think of a better place
Than the Sandhills in the spring.
Great Grandpa could have stayed in England
Or not traveled so far west
But one look at this area,
He knew the Sandhills were the best.
In the cloudless sky above me
Glides a curlew on the wing.
I thank my lucky stars
I’m in the Sandhills in the Spring!
THE SANDHILLS IN THE SPRING by Ken Moreland
A toenail moon is hanging
Low in a champagne sky.
A fire burns in front of me.
My horses graze nearby.
The smell of wild flowers
Rides in on a cool night breeze.
You can almost smell spring coming
Through the rustling of the leaves.
I smell my supper cooking,
It’s just a steak and beans,
But as I look around me,
I feel like a man of means.
When the spring rains come early
And the grass is a sea of green,
The beauty of the Sandhills
Is the best I’ve ever seen.
Just down the fenceline
I hear a robin sing.
There’s very few things finer
Than the Sandhills in the spring.
When you hear the cattle bawling,
With dust thick in the air,
When you’re nearly blinded
By sweat and burning hair,
Though the sweat runs down your forehead,
Smoke makes your eyeballs sting,
You can’t think of a better place
Than the Sandhills in the spring.
Great Grandpa could have stayed in England
Or not traveled so far west
But one look at this area,
He knew the Sandhills were the best.
In the cloudless sky above me
Glides a curlew on the wing.
I thank my lucky stars
I’m in the Sandhills in the Spring!