He was new to the bunkhouse,
an’ us whiskered ol’ men
gave him only a side glance
when he moseyed in.

Now, Mack was our foreman,
an’ he saw right away—
this sprout needed trainin’
in a powerful way.

As the sun rose next mornin’,
Mack gave us a wink,
then sent the young wrangler
to the edge of the brink.

We settled back down
in our bunks for more sleep
as we knew not to hurry
when the sky looked so bleak.

Storm clouds were comin’
with thunder a trailin’,
an’ we knew he’d start back
when the wind got ta wailin’.

Sure enough, here he come
in an hour or so
as we peeked out the windows
at lightnin’s bright glow.

When the dandy rode in,
he was notably changed
from that duded up cowboy
sent out on the range.

His hat was askew,
an’ neckerchief flyin’
as he galloped ol’ Dobber,
I could swear he was cryin’.

The rain was a pourin’
in sheets down his collar,
an’ his mood wasn’t good
as he gave us a holler.

No slicker, no chaps,
no warm underwear
was on the dern kid—
plus, his fingers was bare. 

He tied up his horse—
slid the saddle right off  ‘im,
then ran for the bunkhouse
with the light growin’ dim.

We were sittin’ ‘round tables
fakin’ some Gin
as the poor feller entered,
an’ the cussin begin.

“Why ain’t ya’ll out there
steada in from the weather?
We grinned up at him an’ said,
“’Cause we know better.”

“Ya see son, it’s like this,
when ya been here awhile,
you’ll know when to stay,
or ride out fer a mile.

It don’t take no magic,
intuition an’ such,
just a darn good ol’ smeller
ya ain’t used that much.

If ya listen an watch
us grizzled ol’ guys,
you’ll soon earn your keep
by watchin’ the skies.

It’ll save ya the miseries,
an’ a whole lotta pain
if when ya wake up,
ya for sure can smell rain.”

                      
     Tamara Hillman
©2008