On the subject of overhead birds, this I wonder: How can three days of intermittent rain not be enough to wash the bird splotch off my driver’s side car window?
It’s a recurring terror: each time I shoulder check, there’s a heart-stopping nano-second when said splotch masquerades as a white car in my blind spot.
Of course, the moment of alarm passes, and I forget about this little problem - until the next driving jaunt.
If I were smart, or was in a moment of focus beyond that of a gnat, I‘d water up a paper towel right now & take care of this business.
But where’s the fun in that?
There's somethin' 'bout old fences,
They've somehow earned their keep,
They'll be around from this day hence,
Ain't no need t' call 'em cheap.
They're alot like worn out cowboys,
The scars all tell a tale,
A young man once a ploughboy,
'Till his dreams one day took sail.
A fence can tell a story,
Of days, long since gone by,
A wanderin' cow chasin' her tail,
A cowboy wonderin' why.
That leanin'
fence post,
Sure has some grit,
Outstandin' most,
That seemed much more fit.
That post may be weathered,
And look pretty tough,
Worn where a horse teathered,
It's jagged and rough.
Cowboys is like fences,
Each one has its tales,
Scarred from old fences,
And weathered from the gales.
The point I'm tryin' t' make son,
That fence is worth the while,
It's earned the chance, t' make a stake,
On this ranch for a while.
It ain't about the money,
But that old fence 'il stay,
It sounds a little funny,
But you'll understand someday.
From “Old Fences and Old Cowboys” by
Slim Farnsworth
Read the entire poem here.
