Last Swaller

One-Hundred years from now
if the world's still in the game,
may the earth recall our footprints,
may the wind sing out our names.
There's a pocket full of memories,
looking back and facin' on.
But the ones that linger longest
are the ones from that hour before dawn.
When you're down to your last swaller,
cup hanging from your fingers,
sitting quiet without no light
and the smell of wood-smoke lingers.
The clink of spur and bit-chain,
your horses nicker driftin' light.
And the shuffle of the cavvy*
as it awaits the lasso's flight.
Those grunts and mumbled curses,
never loud & never clear:
they're a fore drawn signal
that dawn is almost here.

Dawn. Dawn, dawn, dawn.

Have you ever been out way yonder
and laid underneath the stars,
and gazed at them in wonder
as the twilight came in bars,
while a coyote sounds it's chorus
from atop some lonely hill,
as you snug up down your blankets
with your woman
to escape that morning chill,
till your hear that cook a-stirring
and before long comes a shout, he yells
"You fuckers come out and get it,
or I'm gonna throw it all out.
You get dressed in a hurry,
and you roll your bed up tight.
Drag it with you to the wagon
by the flickering fire-light.
There you snort into the wash-pan,
and it jars you wide awake,
cause there's ice around the edges
and it's shore is hard to take.
Then you fill you cup and plate up
underneath old Cookie's stare.
She's waiting for you to complain,
but you know
that you don't dare.

Dawn. Dawn, dawn dawn.


* a "cavvy" is a group of ranch horses.