Mustanging

As I recall t'was spring-time,
when my old pard and me did ride,
thru the sage up near Paradise Valley,
where the wily mustangs hide.

My pard, he ‘heads’ quite fearlessly
I swings the hind-end rope,
so hunt'n these phantom critters
most naturally got my vote.

This, my first venture northward,
we planned to catch us some.
Wild-mustangs, slick and fleet and light,
we'd rope ‘em on the run.

Break of dawn we spied ‘em,
just short of the crest of a hill,
half mile up wind of our travel,
taken' their bellies fill.

We glanced, no longer just hopin',
certain our time well spent,
tipped those ponies to lopin'
and up that long valley we went.

No horses to ours were faster,
none stronger nor longer lasting,
Leapn' thru the crystal air,
as dawns first rays came blasting.

Spottin' us 'fore we reached their stand,
they turned to the crest and went,
air'n out their manes and tails,
they must have caught out scent.

Confidence is a fickle lass,
she never played us fair,
one minute they were ours, we knew,
the next they just not there.

Up to the ground they'd pounded,
just moments before us,
my bunky must have had a vision,
because he began to cuss.

Those broncs jumped off, down a hill,
that surely had no bottom.
Dead run all out they seemed to fly,
still cursing my pard left with em'.

Now as I let on, I’m a hind roper,
and proud to say so too,
not a pilot or skydiver,
I saw the fly in this stew.

Pulled up in time quite sharply,
didn't know my pony could slide.
All my life passed there before me,
and I wished I'd never lied.

Rocks tumblin', vertigo thrivin',
my horse strained to keep his feet,
standing at the edge of creation,
stillness reached, never seemed so sweet.

Not wishin' to seem ungrateful,
for my pard takin' me along,
I hollered after, him still a-rollin',
“Where does the healer belong?”