I Am No Cowboy

How many head do you have? He turns his weathered face toward me. You buy’n? His hazel eyes are dancing; I am no cowboy. I'm in the throes of boot stomping country. Saturday nights are for dancing And you better be sleeping in church on Sunday. I take a big whiff of healthy country air. We're standing next to a pasture full of bluebells. There are clumps of succulents on either side of this old barn. She needs paint everywhere except for her brand-new window. Two antique milk jugs are down here, with yellow and purple petunias. The missus, he explains noticing my noticing. A black crow lights on a fence post about twenty feet away. The most annoying croaking caw sound. He is not happy you’re here, the old timer tells me. I grin. There is one lone renegade sunflower to the left of the shed. I wonder about that, but do not ask. Want to see the horses or the cows? He asks. I want to see both, I say. We’ll start with the horses then. The cows are mucking around in the mud; you’ll have to put on waders. I try to look pleased.