Alzada

Ole Montana's wearin' a fresh coat of frost,
          The range is all withered from drought.
And I'm standin' here by the depot this morn,
          Just watchin' the south bound pull out.
A fog's rollin' in o'er the basin below,
          Up here, it's just startin' to rain.
I'm thankful, but Lordy, I'm sure feelin' blue.
          My comrades are gone on that train.

You know, it gets harder to see 'em head off
          Each fall when the round-up's laid by.
This year I cain't watch it.  I'd best walk away,
          And find me a warm place that's dry.
Alzada ain't much of a town, just a place
          For catchin' what runs the iron rail.
A Denver bound trail haulin' homesick cowboys,
          Some cattle, supplies, and the mail.

Why, it's Sunday!  A hymn's floatin' in on the breeze
          From somewhere out there in the haze.
I must've forgot, for while waitin' the train,
          We sorta got drunk a few days.
I know that old hymn from when I was a boy,
          The one daddy always sang flat.
And, Mama, she . . .  aw, hell, I cain't get homesick.
          I've been gone too long for that.

I've got work to do runnin' horses down south.
          There's wild 'uns to catch 'fore the snow.
I'll pack in some fixin's and settle in snug,
          And wait for the spring to take hold.
But winter looks like an eternity now,
          And I'm wet and cold to the bone.
I think I'll just mosey on down to that church,
          And dry out, and think about home.

PMC, 1993