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.
The young men teased when he entered the room. The years had passed him
all too soon. His twisted fingers held the cane that propped him up through years
of pain.
He sat down at the breakfast table. His chair he’d claimed for years. His
duties now were bunkhouse guard. A job made by his peers.
He looked the part of old cowboy, his dark and weathered hide. With week
long grayish whiskers showing off his senior side.
His cold, dark eyes could tell a story, if you looked on in. But no one seemed
to bother. All they saw was old and thin.
The young cowboys would say to him, “You’re dang near old as dirt.” He’d
try to laugh it off but always felt the pangs of hurt.
His nature was to answer fast. “Now hold your tongue. I ain’t yet passed.
Your time’s a comin’ so don’t you fret. From here to there the years are set.
“Old Mother Nature will steal your youth when you’re feeling young and
spry. Hang on to your saddle and be aware. She does it on the sly.”
And then he said, “The good you’ve done; well don’t forget that time erases
that aspect of life’s hard work on everyone.
“Your young eyes see us obsolete. From that regard I’ll accept the seat. My
years of toil have earned this place. Being put to pasture ain’t no disgrace.
“This winter when it’s ten below, your rope won’t toss and it sure won’t
close. Your fingers will think they’re under ice. My toasty fire will sure feel nice.
“You young ones want a love affair? She’ll break your heart, but don’t
despair. Hard work will keep her off your mind. No better cure you’ll ever find.
“While on the trail and asleep at night, the cold hard ground will be your
plight. My soft, warm bunk’s right by the flame. A bed that’s mine and carries
my name.
“When our breakfast’s through you’ll be in the saddle. You’ll have the cold
north wind to battle. I’ll be in this bunkhouse nice and warm. You’ll be out there
bravin’ another storm. Your wool pants frozen to your legs. And, by the way,
could you pass those eggs?
“What you will do, I’ve done before. So many times, I can’t be sure? Your
cowboy way heads my direction. If it ain’t for you, better make that election.
“So call me fossil, if you must. But one thing you can surely trust. Though my
body’s worn from years of cold, I’ve earned this place that you call old.”