The shadow of an eagle's wings
racing 'cross the mountain side --
I saw it sweep the valley floor,
then pierce the golden sun and soar --
the day that Grandpa died.

I hiked to Grandpa's special place --
a place, he said, for chasing dreams --
where you can leave the world and rest
and fish awhile in silver streams.
He told me of the days of old.
He showed me how he panned for gold.

A shadow skimmed across the stream
that Grandpa panned so long ago --
the place he stopped to chase a dream...
where golden nuggets wink and glow.
He liked to watch the eagles fly
and pierce the blaze of burning sky.
"You see them eagles overhead;
I'd like to fly like them," he said.

The shadow of an eagle's wings
racing 'cross the mountain side --
I saw it glide through open space,
then land at Grandpa's special place --
the day that Grandpa died.

Hard times in Montana -- that seemed to be the norm.
At least that's all I ever knew from the moment I was born.
But that all changed with World II; the country needed beef --
beef and beans and sugar beets, and tons of winter wheat.

All across Montana, ranchers, like John Mohr,
planted crops on prairie land they'd never cropped before.
John Mohr's lower forty was planted with seed beans.
Eventually, this bean field became my "field of dreams".

Hard times in Montana were harder, far, for some;
some on the dole, or WPA, and some were on the bum.
For school, I wore old cast-off clothes; and always with the fear
some girl would claim the dress was hers. It happened every year.
"That's my old dress," the girl would tell to everyone in school;
and then they'd turn to see the dress -- and wearing it, a fool!

A thirteen year old hopeful, I searched the town around.
Ten cents an hour for tending kids; that's all I ever found.
That all changed with John Mohr's beans. Mohr was hiring local teens.
Fifty cents an hour he paid; and ten hours every day.
I hoed the beans in John Mohr's field -- a dreaming all the way.

Ten hours a day of bending down, and hoeing through a row;
attacking weeds at every step, and brandishing my hoe.
But I was busy dreaming about the dough I'd make;
too full of dreams to care if my poor aching back would break.

I hoed a million weedy rows. With every ache I swore,
"No more will I wear worn-out clothes; I'm sick of being poor.
I'll wear those rich girls cast off clothes never, never again;
for when I get my pay from Mohr, I'll be as rich as them."

I've climbed a long way since those days, but memory sees me poor.
And no check's ever meant as much as what I got from Mohr.
The rancher made a profit. The soldiers got some beans.
And that year, I was duded up just like the high school queens.

The cowboys gathered 'round his grave to mourn his passing on,
but deep inside they really felt his life had long since gone.
They shared the same old bunkhouse and they'd known the man for years.
They rode with him; they branded; they all wrestled down the steers.

He'd answer questions put to him; then turn away, or cough;
or grunt some non-committal phrase that cut the speaker off.
He'd let no one get near to him. He neither laughed nor cried.
He didn't seem to feel or care -- like someone dead inside.

Sometimes he'd ride to Rock Creek and stare as ripples passed,
but mostly he'd sit in some chair and gaze into the past.
The way he went was how he spent each day his flesh survived:
He ate his grits, worked hard all day, then just sat down and died.

The day he went was how he spent each summer, spring and fall
and winter, too. When work was through, into his grave he'd crawl.
Died, he had, a long time back. I don't know when or why.
What makes a man give up on life and opt to up and die?

About BETTE WOLF DUNCAN Born on a Montana ranch, raised near the Red Lodge rodeo country, Bette Duncan was also educated in the state, though since has lived in Dallas, Texas, Los Angeles, California, and Des Moines, Iowa. She presently resides in Runnels, also in Iowa. A retired attorney, Bette spent the last eight years prior to retirement as an administrative law judge who heard tax cases. She began writing poetry, she states, "...as a diversion and to retain my sanity." She admits openly, "I am not a cowgirl; but a Montana native never loses their Big Sky heritage."  Bette says, "I'm particularly attracted to cowboy poetry because it has rhythm, rhyme, and you know what the poet is talking about (as opposed to modern esoteric free verse)." You may drop Bette a line at: wacobelle@msn.com It certainly appears to us here at CowPokin' Fun, that this lady, too, knows what she's talking about. The poetry above is just a small sample of what we've seen of the woman's versatile style and unique voice, and we're very impressed. But we're not the only site on the Internet to recognize her talent. Bette's work is posted on other sites as well, so if you'd like to see more, use your favorite search engine typing in the keywords, "Bette Wolf Duncan" We bet you find more than one that suits your fancy! We congratulate Ms. Duncan on her fine work and thank her for allowing us to post it here for your enjoyment. August 1999 Update: Bette now has Internet sites of her own: -WACOBELLE PRODUCTIONS- Casey's Corral.....http://www.wacobelle.org Charlie Russell's Stagecoach.....http://www.charlierussell.org The Rangewriters.....http://www.rangewriter.org Rodeo Country.....http://www.rodeocountry.org

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