Isn’t she pretty, and isn’t she sweet, and isn’t she a good mother to her little boy, and isn't she a fine Wyona, and when the men come in at first light, spurs a janglin’, pull up their chairs at her table, setting their hats on the floor, revealing the stark tan lines cut across their foreheads, and she pours coffee, and they begin telling stories on each other, and the cassette is playing Hank or Merle or Patsy, doesn’t she cook them a fine meal of flapjacks and eggs and bacon, and biscuits with white gravy, and come noon, after the morning's work, doesn't she cook them a fine meal of a roast or ham, mashed potatoes with brown gravy, baked beans and green beans and salad and corn muffins, pie and ice cream and black coffee, and come dark, after the long day, after the noise of the chute and shouts of 'git,' after the horses have been curried and let loose in the big lot, after the men have cleared out, gone home to their trailers and wives, or gone into town to cut loose, and it’s just the three of us, me and the boy and Wyona, sitting down to her table saying grace, eating the leftovers from lunch, teasing the boy, having a few laughs, settling in before the tv, boots off, feet up, stretched out, sleepy, watching whatever the boy likes while Wyona and I talk quiet until our eyes grow heavy, and it’s time for the boy to go to bed, and it’s, 'goodnight boy,' and it’s, ‘goodnight' to Wyona, and it’s, 'thank you for the supper,' and it's on with the boots, and I walk up the road to the bunkhouse kicking dust, counting stars, humming a tune, yawning, tired, full, content, when all this has happened, isn’t it time to say, 'isn’t she pretty, and isn’t she sweet, and isn’t she a good mother to her little boy, and isn’t she a fine Wyona?’ 

It is, and she is.