I write this:

We get down to the end of March

knowing there may be one more storm

but the worst of winter is over,

most of the calves are on the ground,

we spend our days cutting and tagging

the new calves, treating scours, spreading

fertilizer and seed, maybe lespedeza

or red clover, brush-hogging what we

didn't get to last fall, if it isn't too muddy,

riding through the fall pairs, and, still

feeding, another month of hauling hay

and cubes and mineral and tubs, but

at least cutting ice is over, not that

I mind that, I don't, but it gets old.

and it feels like I'm kidding myself, so I begin again:

We’d get down to the end of March

knowing there may be one more storm

but the worst of winter was over,

most of the calves were on the ground,

we’d spend our days cutting and tagging

the new calves, treating scours, spreading

fertilizer and seed, maybe lespedeza

or red clover, brush-hogging what we

didn't get to last fall, if it wasn't too muddy,

riding through the fall pairs, and, still

feeding, another month of hauling hay

and cubes and mineral and tubs, but

at least cutting ice was over, not that

I minded that, I didn't, but it got old.

I guess this is in honor of those

who put up with it, and me, who helped

along the way: Walter, Darly Boy,

David, Ronnie, but most of all Roscoe,

a tough man with a big ole heart of gold,

whom I miss like hell, we all do, who

never set foot inside a doctor's office

or Walmart, never complained, laughed

and pulled pranks, worked as long

as there was work to be done, lived hard,

then found love in the arms of a sweet 

woman, whom he came home to find,

one evening, stone dead, in a chair, at the

kitchen table. He followed a year later.

It's in honor of Martha, knowing

when I came through the door she'd

likely hear a litany of complaints

and grousing, about: Walter, Darly Boy,

David, Ronnie, but never Roscoe, and

hear about some damn calf that died,

or cow that went through the damn fence,

or some other damn thing; me, smelling

of diesel or manure or blood, pulling

off dirty boots, sitting down at the 

dinner table, exhausted, rarely saying

a word, shoveling food, done in, 

then recovering enough to be civil,

watch tv and help with the science projects.

It's in honor, I suppose, of the joy

of physical labor in a beautiful place,

the privilege of being my own boss,

making the decisions, reaping the rewards,

suffering the consequences, of spending

a life on horseback, and on a tractor, 

making progress incrementally, seeing life

from these vantages, the long views,

ridge after ridge extending to a distant

horizon, watching one season turn 

to the next, with all the accompanying joys

and miseries, being happy and unhappy

at home, raising a family while not having

enough time to do the right thing by them.

I suppose spring is a time of renewal,

but I never saw it that way, winter was my 

time, the long nights and short days, 

the days before calving began, when the 

work was rote, and cold, and my happiness

was weather-dependent, happy when 

the sun shone, grouchy when it didn't, 

having to listen to and put up with Walter

and Darly Boy and the rest, never Roscoe,

when we might finish work at ten-thirty

in the morning if nothing went wrong

and the rest of the day was ours, giving

us respite before the first calf hit the ground

come the fifteenth of February, the cruelest

month, beginning the seven day, all hours

of the day and night, work week, but I've 

complained enough, the joys far outweighed

and outweigh the trivial, and not so trivial,

complaints, spring is a time of renewal, 

the daffs and crocuses, the geese, the new grass, 

the goldfinches taking on their mating color, 

the deer's belly puffy with fawn, the cows 

lazing on a hillside in the sun, content with 

their new calves by their sides, but I wish, 

and this comes back to haunt me, I'd spent 

more time at home, I worried too much 

about the wrong things, had I known

I'd sell the ranch, and all the hard work

really didn't matter, that it was what was

at home that did; well, knowing me, I 

wouldn't have done it differently, I never

could let something go until tomorrow, I 

had to do it now, and drag my sorry ass

home, tired and defeated, or am I mis-

remembering, we had our seven days in

Colorado every summer, we had school

plays and math contests and choir and 

marching band at halftime, but there was

always a cow calving or some disaster, 

I could never get away from it, never be

in the moment with the fam, it haunts me,

it does, but this is getting me nowhere.