those who speak of valleys with bountiful treasures
motherlodes of gold hidden in mountains
old crinkly maps showing the way
how do I know what these western hieroglyphics say?
on this cold, January, February, whatever it is day
sitting in the lean-to warming by a crackling fire
dead wood going out in a blaze of glory
we should all be so lucky
hot cup of coffee to thaw out the body
tastes good, mighty good
some jerky to chew on
horses wearing their Indian made blankets
chowing on some oats not made by quakers
swappin’ tales not tails of their riders adventures
storm movin’ in afternoon gloom
mountain tops hidden by gray clouds blowin’ snow
chill biting my cheek and nose
getting old - feel the cold in my bones
wind coming up - beads banging together
getting mighty uncomfortable now
growing darker - put some hot coals down
under dirt to lay on and keep warm sleeping
in the morning saddle up the horses and move on
lonesome man among the pines and deep snow
wonders how much longer he can do this
death coming into town on the 4:20 someday
reaper station; you don’t find it, it finds you
maybe you die frozen in some snowbank
not so bad - like going to sleep they say
