Cowboy Have Rules

The horse is all. But, Hay Boy obeys cowboy Uncle Doc who looks right, sets three fingers, neck reins.

Doc, a long-ago bronc rider, knows white straw hats are for dress, wears a cap for feeding, pitching dung.

He has lived cattle, vets the day-olds bought at auction, cautioned me not to get too attached to a cow—it’s not a pet.

No one can lean against a tractor like a ranch hand; his antique tractor isn’t sexy, stalls if not coaxed.

Doc throttles just so and swears, Damn John Deere, drags the tine harrow to smooth the dirt for the team,

a header and a heeler. The steer breaks out of the chute, the ropers ride unified, two feet from the steer until

Hay Boy stops the forward rush, sits back, turns the steer. The wanna-be’s circle Doc, look for his cowboy to rub off.

I study Doc. Creaky knees, metal hips, missing a thumb. I make a portrait. Before long, I will blink, and he will be gone.