The Drop Tine Bull Poem by John Stetson

The brindled drop tine bull
Brings his herd along the fence
He steers the steers and leers at me
His look not quite intense
We ponder life, each his own strife, this old cow boy and me

He clears the gate with one old cow
They amble past the here and now
And take me back to the creek by the woods
And the hedgerow post pile by the birthday tree
And the chicken coop and my first chores

The mem'ries flood
To the water tank and the crawdads there
In Holstine's pasture, way in the back
Not far from a line of walnut trees
Black and tall against the breeze

Each straight as a sentry at his post
Who walked this land
Bow, rifle, plow in hand
It connects me to the land my feet
Negotiate in the autumn heat

I've drifted south, as things seem to go
Yet somehow in my soul I know
I'm tied to the land in a way not seen
By those whose mem'ries aren't so keen
For the ground they trod when their feet were bare

But my mem'rie's warm… and it takes me there