Me and Sam are out checking cattle, 

and none too happy about it.

Ten places we’d rather be come to mind,

but here is where we are, and that’s the long and short of it. 

Sam’s quiet and I’m quiet. When it’s hot like this

it kind of puts a halt to the small talk.

But the biting flies aren’t too bad, and the cattle

look healthy, and that’s enough good to offset the bad.

We come an old post-oak large enough to offer shade,

so we ease up and sit a spell. “Pard,” Sam says

(Sam is my horse, conversely I am his rider), “Pard,” he says,

“If you were any more morose . . . what eatin’ at you?” 

Sam is no Mister Ed, you have to listen hard 

to hear his voice, it’s something of an art, 

but he makes himself understood. “Aw Sam,” I say, 

“tomorrow’s Thursday and Nancy’s feeling poorly,

(I take my hat off and swat a horsefly),

and if we ain’t making music on Thursday 

then the whole dang week feels wrong, incomplete,

Thursday being the best day of the week and no mistake,

and besides, Nancy means the world and that much more to me,

and it hurts to know she’s hurtin’.” 

Sam says, “that’s the longest string of words you’ve put together 

in recent memory.” I acknowledge the truth of it.

We’ve sat about long enough, and set off

for the old house place. There’s usually cattle

loafing around the spring, so off we go

thinking about life and Thursdays and how

we don’t always get what we want, but we get enough

and I hope Nancy gets to feeling better real soon,

and Sam says he hopes Nancy gets to feeling better real soon—

and I say to Sam, “thanks for listening.” He nods and walks on.