{"id":19331,"date":"2023-02-22T00:39:44","date_gmt":"2023-02-22T00:39:44","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/woodriverweekly.com\/?p=19331"},"modified":"2023-02-23T23:41:19","modified_gmt":"2023-02-23T23:41:19","slug":"put-out-to-pasture","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/woodriverweekly.com\/index.php\/2023\/02\/22\/put-out-to-pasture\/","title":{"rendered":"Put Out To Pasture"},"content":{"rendered":"
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Bryce Angell – The outdoors has always been a large part of my life. My father was an outfitter and guide for 35 years and I was there to shoe and care for the horses and help him do the cooking. We took many great trips into the Yellowstone area. Even now that I\u2019m older, we still ride into the Tetons, Yellowstone and surrounding areas. My poems are mostly of personal experience. I am now retired and enjoying life to the fullest. I plan to do more riding and writing.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

The young men teased when he entered the room. The years had passed him all too soon. His twisted fingers held the cane that propped him up through years of pain.
\nHe sat down at the breakfast table. His chair he\u2019d claimed for years. His duties now were bunkhouse guard. A job made by his peers.
\nHe looked the part of old cowboy, his dark and weathered hide. With weeklong grayish whiskers showing off his senior side.
\nHis cold dark eyes could tell a story, if you looked on in. But no one seemed to bother. All they saw was old and thin.
\nThe young cowboys would say to him, \u201cYou\u2019re dang near old as dirt.\u201d He\u2019d try to laugh it off but always felt the pangs of hurt.
\nHis nature was to answer fast. \u201cNow hold your tongue. I ain\u2019t yet passed. Your time\u2019s a comin\u2019 so don\u2019t you fret. From here to there the years are set.
\n\u201cOld Mother Nature will steal your youth when you\u2019re feeling young and spry. Hang on to your saddle and be aware. She does it on the sly.\u201d
\nAnd then he said, \u201cThe good you\u2019ve done; well don\u2019t forget that time erases that aspect of life\u2019s hard work on everyone.
\n\u201cYour young eyes see us obsolete. From that regard I\u2019ll accept the seat. My years of toil have earned this place. Being put to pasture ain\u2019t no disgrace.
\n\u201cThis winter when it\u2019s ten below, your rope won\u2019t toss and it sure won\u2019t close. Your fingers will think they\u2019re under ice. My toasty fire will sure feel nice.
\n\u201cYou young ones want a love affair? She\u2019ll break your heart, but don\u2019t despair. Hard work will keep her off your mind. No better cure you\u2019ll ever find.
\n\u201cWhile on the trail and asleep at night, the cold hard ground will be your plight. My soft, warm bunk\u2019s right by the flame. A bed that\u2019s mine and carries my name.
\n\u201cWhen our breakfast\u2019s through you\u2019ll be in the saddle. You\u2019ll have the cold north wind to battle. I\u2019ll be in this bunkhouse nice and warm. You\u2019ll be out there bravin\u2019 another storm. Your wool pants frozen to your legs. And, by the way, could you pass those eggs?
\n\u201cWhat you will do, I\u2019ve done before. So many times, I can\u2019t be sure? Your cowboy way heads my direction. If it ain\u2019t for you, better make that election.
\n\u201cSo call me fossil, if you must. But one thing you can surely trust. Though my body’s worn from years of cold, I\u2019ve earned this place that you call old.\u201d
\n\u2013 Bryce Angell<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The young men teased when he entered the room. The years had passed him all too soon. His twisted fingers held the cane that propped him up through years of pain. He sat down at the breakfast table. His chair he\u2019d claimed for years. His duties now were bunkhouse guard. A job made by his […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"tdm_status":"","tdm_grid_status":"","_pvb_checkbox_block_on_post":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[160,2],"tags":[],"class_list":{"0":"post-19331","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","6":"category-cowboy-poetry","7":"category-commentary"},"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/woodriverweekly.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/19331","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/woodriverweekly.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/woodriverweekly.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/woodriverweekly.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/woodriverweekly.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=19331"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/woodriverweekly.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/19331\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":19332,"href":"https:\/\/woodriverweekly.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/19331\/revisions\/19332"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/woodriverweekly.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=19331"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/woodriverweekly.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=19331"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/woodriverweekly.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=19331"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}