The traffic flies by at a fast-paced clip.
by Debra Coppinger Hill
they say on a warm day it’s a nice little trip.
The county came in and smoothed out the road,
past the porch where we sat and learned of “The code”.
In my mind I still see him though he is long gone,
and I still hear the words to his old Cowboy songs.
He spoke of the cow trails and called them by name.
Said the dust all around us was one and the same.
He gave us the stories of the days that were past.
We looked to the future and swore we’d make them last.
We rode our stick ponies and rounded up strays,
and we knew we’d be Cowboys for all of our days.
The buildings stand empty, a testimony to time.
But they’re filled with the dreams that I still call mine.
You can blacktop a road, but they’ll always be there,
those dust covered memories that hang in the air.
They’ve paved the dirt road that rolls by the farm,
where we laughed & played Cowboy in the fields & barn.
We learned where we came from, who we could be;
and the dust of that dirt road, is still part of me.