While riding along, the mountain trails,
with billy, my trusty steed.
We're walking along, in no big hurry,
as we wait, for the creeks to recede.
After the storm, the trees smell fresh,
and the air, seems fit to breathe.
The lightning stays, within the clouds,
like a knife, stays in its sheathe.
The birds start their singing,
as the animals come out of hiding.
Things start getting back to normal,
as the weather starts subsiding.
The beauty of Mother nature,
may seem so harsh at times.
But the beauty, what is left behind,
can be the cause, for many rhymes.
So this here old cowboy,
and his horse of many years.
Remembers all the beauty,
in his mind like souvenirs.
The majestic purple mountains,
against the dark grey sky.
Makes a cowboy, and his horse,
breath deep, and say good-bye.
For its back to rounding up,
the strays that wandered away.
And the cowboy and his horse,
can go gently on their way.
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