In the wide wild West, the cattle roam,
feeding on grasses, drinking from streams that thread the range.
Calves are born beneath the open sky,
left to grow so the herds endure,
their numbers steady against the turning of seasons.
Cowboys guard the land and its creatures,
riding on horseback, leather saddles creaking.
They wear jeans and shirts, boots of the finest hide,
Stetson hats shading eyes from the sun.
At their belts hang guns and knives,
each chosen by taste, by budget, by pride.
A rope coils at the ready—
for branding, for catching, for keeping order.
When cattle are grown and branded,
the cowboys drive them to market,
herds flowing like rivers across the plains.
Toward railheads they push them,
to be shipped to distant towns and cities.
Trail drives are grueling, dangerous work—
dust storms, scarce water, rough terrain,
and hostile paths where thieves and tribes
wait to test the courage of the riders.
The West was lawless, ruled by the gun.
To survive, a cowboy must master his craft
and his weapon alike.
He practices roping, branding, herding—
and draws his pistol with equal skill.
Most can fire within seconds;
a rare few, with hands like lightning,
can draw and shoot in a quarter breath.
These men are feared, respected,
their names whispered across the frontier.
Hard labor fills the days on the range,
and though they eat well at camp,
on the trail meals are scarce—
a bite at dawn, another at dusk,
sometimes standing in rain,
sometimes with no fire to warm them.
The trail drive is the hardest of all,
a test of grit, endurance, and will.
Cowboys work as if two men in one,
bearing burdens with quiet strength.
And still they are called cowboys—
not cowmen—
perhaps because the name carries
the myth of youth,
the dust of freedom,
and the endless sky.
