This poem’s called “Critters,” one of my new poems. My two best horses, Buddy and Jerry, they’re standing head to tail. They’ve carried me over many a trail. One’s a strip-faced sorrel with a long red mane. Buddy’s a blaze-faced chestnut with two soft feet, long scar on his hip where he got caught between a gate and a fence in a real tight spot. We’ve lived in this camp for many years now, and those two are the best I’ve had to jump in front of a cow. We’re partners, me and those two. When it comes to cowboying, they know what to do. It’s evening now, and the cattle are stringing out the grays after being shaded up on another hot summer day. And lately, there’s been a waxing moon bright, making the coyote bark most of the night. And while the birds go to roost and the coyote howls, the lion leaves its ledge for a night on the prowl. And in a few more days, when the moon is big and white, the bear will walk the country until long after daylight. And if it don’t win the lion kill or some such meal, it’ll shade up in a big juniper at the top of the hill. On the high ridges where the afternoon zephyrs blow, the big bucks lay in the shade looking down at the valley below. The hawks and eagles are soaring around, screeching now and then, hoping to spook up a meal down there on the ground. There’s a lot more critters. I can’t mention them all, from the biggest down to the small. From the big range bow to the mama cow and her baby calf, just watching those calves play makes me laugh. I guess critters mean more to a man when there’s no people around and you live way out here, 50 miles from town.