Myth is the public dream, and dream is the private myth. - Joseph Campbell
Cool, water. Cool, clear water. Water. .
remember the song sung by "The Sons of the Pioneers" so long ago.
Not a cowboy poet, I, but one who loves them. I write the
Song of the Windmill.Sing the song of the windmill's whirring in the breeze.
Listen to the cattle stirring as they chew and graze
on thin grass blades. The herd's not long for this place,
Cause the drought is driving ranchers to leave at a pace
that surprises everyone. The empty tank is commonplace.
"Maybe next year," the neighbors tell each other to save face.
AeroMotor is the name up there. There are other makers too.
A good windmill will outlast a house, barn, and an old buckaroo.
The bad years go by. Then the good years bring in a new crew to
Try again. More cows graze now as the pasture green and new
Makes rich milk, and grows fat calves who rest in the lean-to.
"Next year," the neighbors tell each other, "the drought is through."
Copyright by Carol Gee, March 14, 2006
Tags: ranching poetry rainfall
My "topical post" today at South by Southwest is about senators' dilemmas.