The old rancher told me
This time of year it’ll blow and blow and blow
until it snows
He’s gone now but I remember him in March, April and May
When the wind howls for days on end
The trails I run turn to sand,
the fine dirt has flown.
Grasshoppers scatter with each step and my eyes are full of grit
Then one day it’s still
and the big flakes fall
I keep my eyes on the trail
because I cannot see ahead through the falling snow
Somewhere off in the white a meadowlark sings
His voice hangs on the stillness of each falling flake
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