Cowboys and Mustangs
by Michael Doyle

The Conquistadors brought horses to these lands
Back 500 years ago, as best as I understand
Now, thousands are allowed to wander free
Causing irreversible damage to the rangeland country

The conflict arises over the carrying capacity
50,000 horses await adoption in all this scarcity
Only a cowboy's knowing hand will free them from their pens
And return freedom to these mustangs again

Mustang is not a kind or some sort of breed
But a term for all horses sired from wild seed
They, too, have every right to live
However feral as they scratch for whatever this land gives

Mustangs have their own spectacular sense of sovereignty
With their heads raised high in their quiet dignity
Taken down to the subject's deepest dissection
Mustangs are among the best through natural selection

A cowboy has a kinship with the Mustang breed
With their mutual need to be open and freed
Freed of all the constraints of domestication
As they saddle up to ride across the nation

There is something to be said for overconfidence
To be brave enough to trust in God's providence
It's an aura of waiting a long time to be
What Mustangs and cowboys need to be - free

Saddled up, they start their long journey
Up the trail to their awaited  destiny
Cowboys aren't made from something like "quit"
And cowboys and Mustangs know each other's fit

Good judgment comes from a wealth of experience
And not be lost in any sense of inference
But from the experience that comes from bad judgments
Each of these pushes forward a cowboy's improvement

Pushing hard on into the fallow trails beyond
It is the kind of thing that builds a cowboy's bonds
From the morning light into the dark of night
It becomes the test of who has had things most right

Appropriate management level  has ruled since 1971
It became necessary because overpopulation had begun
Mankind's interference made the natural environment artificial
And necessitated the need for man to try to be beneficial

Only time will tell if man has managed to get this right
But the hour is growing late and light faint this campfire's night
The journey will begin early in the morning's morrow
Only time will tell if it brings happiness or a trail of sorrow

(c) February 20, 2025   Michael Doyle
All Rights Reserved