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First Snow

He has no right to be here–this coyote–old and full of mange

His last night’s refuge–an old abandoned dog house–Right next to the

chicken pen–out of the snow

When seen by me and sniffed by the dog–he stands so still–no sound of

warning from his barred teeth in open mouth–I run for the gun–he’s still

waiting when I return–standing upright–against page wire–to keep sheep

in and his ilk out

So, why is he here? Straight into my eye he looks as I raise the gun

Does he know how sick he is?–He won’t survive this winter—

He’s alone–an outcast–because he’s sick–going off to die as did the

ancient ones–not a burden to his den

Is he asking for mercy killing–release from his dying body?

Is this why he’s abandoned his fear of humans and come into my yard

on this first winter’s morning of this coming winter?

I pull the trigger and pray his spirit, now released, will run in the fields

of eternity, where he will be free of fear from my kind and his summers

will last forever

May his spirit be at rest. May his spirit be at peace.

—Lee Cryer Tennyson

October 21,200l

Denise will be carrying Lee’s ashes in her saddle bags which were

brought here today by horseback. Please feel free to come and have a

look her favorite things and visit with the horses outside.

Cowboy’s Prayer

Oh Lord, I’ve never lived where churches grow.

I loved creation better as it stood

That day You finished it so long ago

And looked upon Your work and called it good.

I know that others find You in the light

That’s sifted down through tinted window panes,

And yet I seem to feel You near tonight

In this dim, quiet starlight on the plains.

I thank You, Lord, that I am placed so well,

That You have made my freedom so complete;

That I’m no slave of whistle, clock or bell,

Nor weak-eyed prisoner of wall and street,

Just let me live my life as I’ve begun

And give me work that’s open to the sky;

Make me a pardner of the wind and sun,

And I won’t ask a life that’s soft or high.

Let me be easy on the man that’s down;

Let me be square and generous with all.

I’m careless sometimes, Lord, when I’m in town,

But never let ‘em say I’m mean or small!

Make me as big and open as the plains,

As honest as the hawse between my knees,

Clean as the wind that blows behind the rains,

Free as the hawk that circles down the breeze!

Forgive me, Lord, if sometimes I forget.

You know about the reasons that are hid.

You understand the things that gall and fret;

You know me better than my mother did.

Just keep an eye on all that’s done and said

And right me, sometimes, when I turn aside,

And guide me down the long, dim trail ahead

That stretches upward toward the Great Divide.