With ten more miles of fence line
  my horse wants to turn back

There’s storm clouds over the mountain
  just a small tent in my sack

The fence line sits all busted
  from two bulls that went astray

They both missed being neutered
  last year on roundup day

My hands are cold and blistered
  that salve jar all but gone

Two wolves begin to howling
  that lonesome prairie song

The storm clouds now have thickened
  light pulls its covers back

Just one more night on the western *****
  —with eight miles left to track

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2018)