Upon the flushing milieu of twilight,
Vague shadows of the ranch hands brook.
A proud slow march on hackneyed legs,
In the slow emergence of autumn’s dusk.
Today’s sullied labor grimes the worn denim chaps,
In the dawn to dusk harvest of the seasons haying.
An aching exhaustion on sweat muddied faces,
The price and the pride of the old rancher’s toils.
Barns piled high from the summers green fields,
The homestead prepares for the silver of winter.
Lost in the muted glow of sunset’s backdrop,
The prairie echoes thanks with a soft cowboy song.