The times are young
And the times are tough
The mountain man sews his cloth
The winter is gonna be rough.
He palms the sweat from his brow
Out the window he surveys his plow
Jagged rust
Scratched iron's reaction to snow
By the pond lies his cow
His beloved bovine Big Brown
And he recalls the calf, after birth, lying on the ground
The mountain man sighs in desperation
His wife and daughter with gaunt faces warm their skinny bones by the fire
The cast shadow paints them like death
Flies swirling in their breath
And the mountain man grabs his gun.
With heavy heart, and heavy boot he trods the winter mix,
Jagged soles so as not to slip.
A single tear steams as it strolls his face.
Two shells in their homes
Aims the barrel to the brown beast's nose.
Past the eyes, antlers reveal with grace.
He pulls the trigger and the snow is painted red.
The animal falls dead.
He turns to the house and sees his daughter through the window peer,
Notices the anticipation on her face
And gives God grace for the deer that took Big Brown's place.