Bryce Angell is a cowboy poet. Angell was raised on a farm/ranch in the St. Anthony, Idaho area with approximately 75 head of horses. Horses remain an important part of Angell’s life.

Angell shares his poetry with Cache Valley Daily every Friday.

I woke one July morning, cleared my throat and scratched my head. Then threw
the covers off and gladly climbed right out of bed.

I gobbled down three hotcakes, finished off an egg or two, and headed for the
round corral. I had a job to do.

I loved to see the sunrise, while I tossed the horses hay. But looked square in the
gelding’s eyes-the hated dapple gray.

The gray was needing horseshoes, getting long on every hoof. But first I had to
catch him. He was dang near capture proof.

He didn’t have a horse’s name like Whiskey, Blue or Scratch. The cowboys named
him what he was and called him Hard to Catch.

The doggone, ornery dapple gray would circle ‘round the corral. If you stepped
within a foot or two, he’d turn and run like %$##.

Ole Hard to Catch was prob’ly thinking, “Sorry looking fool.” I had the means to
catch the gray but never used the tool.

I heard a fellar holler, “Go and get yourself a rope. And make the biggest loop you
can then toss it with some hope.”

I hadn’t learned to toss a rope or throw a lariat. But Hard to Catch had pushed
me to a place he might regret.

So, I walked back to the saddle shop and found a dusty rope. I crossed my fingers
for good luck. Am I a wishful dope?

Hard to Catch was eyeing me and looking full of heck. But when I tossed the rope
it landed clean around his neck!

I don’t know who was more astonished, me or Hard to Catch. His roguish running
‘round the corral had finally met its match.

And now Ole Hard to Catch ain’t really hard to catch no more. Cuz when he sees
my lariat, he knows he’s plumb done for.



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