Calving In the High Country

Calving In the High Country
　
I was born for this.
Cold leather creaks as my saddle
Warms itself beneath me.
I’m not the picture of refinement
In my heavy shearling coat,
Wild rag wrapped at my throat
To turn away the bite of the air.
Winter howls its way through my bones,
Calving in the high country.
My 30-30 in its scabbard
And my hat screwed down to the wind
I knee my pony to a trot,
Warming us both to a new day.
A snowshoe hare breaks cover
In front of us
With my heeler pup in hot pursuit
But my little roan is sound,
Unfazed by the flurry of snow and fur
That shattered our frigid peace.
My breath freezes in the air
And hangs there like smoke;
My life is so insignificant
In these mountains.
It could disappear like my breath
And be just as unnoticeable
To the rest of the world,
Too busy fighting traffic
And playing slave to a timecard
To stop and breathe deep
The smell of fresh snow on pines,
Too rushed to appreciate the bounty
Of a Dutch oven supper
Slow-cooked over hot coals.
My saddle is my desk
In this, the God-fearing high country.
I don’t do the work of an executive
Or hold any title of importance;
My business suit consists
Of fencing gloves
And the battle-worn Stetson
My granddaddy once wore.
The mountains are my boardroom
Where I conduct the business
Of survival of my high country bunch.
I am the CEO of my one room cabin
And sole proprietor of three hundred head
Of fine black cows, each giving me
The gift of a calf on which
I stake my livelihood.
My money is not on paper,
Hidden in stocks and bonds,
No 401k account or IRA,
My money is made of hide and horn,
Not prey to the NASDAQ and the DOW
But instead to winter and wolves,
To the cougar whose tracks I crossed just now
Alongside the frozen crick.
I undo the strap on my scabbard
As the familiar uneasy feeling
Of a predator creeps up my spine.
I’ve seen not hide nor hair of him,
But I have felt his amber eyes
Boring into my soul as I ride
To check the herd.
The high country brings with it
A sense of danger.
Sometimes I think that’s why
I love it so,
The solitude and the quiet,
But also the adventure,
The sense of freedom and
Sheer feeling of being alive
In this wild place, untamed
And inaccessible,
Much like myself.
I come up on the herd
And see already the red stain
Marring the white blanket
Of powder all around me.
Another calf sacrificed
To a wolf made a pet
By some lobbyist in Washington.
I see a flash of silver in the treeline
And slide my rifle out,
Slowly chambering a round
And watching, waiting.
My roan knows the drill well,
He is gun-broke and still.
With patient scanning
I find him, sitting quietly in the trees.
I level my rifle and take aim
At the activists and lobbyists
Who threaten my livelihood,
My existence in this country.
I finish my ride and turn for home,
Feeling no worse for the wear.
My cabin is warm,
My supper will soon be hot,
And I will bid farewell to another day,
Calving in the high country.