The Fetch
The Van Gogh colors of fall
are gone.
Replaced by the grey tweed of winter.
But, this
early morning blanketed by stark, blue white of deep powder.
I
shiver on my horse, hands too cold too hold the reins.
A half
mile off, three hundred cattle lie like black granite on the
distant ridge.
I whistle them out, through trackless snow.
Leaping like bulls from a bucking chute, they lunge toward
the herd.
I send Hemp left, Taff right.
Each turn causes
an explosion of snow like tiny grenades.
The herd, now
stretched over a quarter mile seems too much for two dogs.
Front
to back, left to right they work.
Too much passion can burst
the heart.
No sound but the muffled beat of many hooves.
The
herd approaches, steam exploding from nostrils, forced on by the
fetch.
Cows now settled in new feed.
Dogs biting at ice
balls between toes.
Tongues hanging, defying the cold.
For
more than a mile their work is written ? in snow.
The arc,
the turn, the straight track speak of their passion, their love
of the fetch.
Written
by George C. Lake P.A 2008
about Marley Taff and
Marley Hemp
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