A Thousand More

There's nothing you can sell me now nothing you can tell me how: I've been drunk in old Mex, near death in southwest Tex; slept in the desert many nights through right along side scorpions, mountain lions, javelinas too. I've seen Mississippi where it burns and Arizona, where I nearly did; I've ate rattlesnake, caribou and gator, stood alone in a mournful wind at the grave of Billy the Kid. I've crossed Beartooth Pass in August in knee deep snow, been lost in 110 degree desert heat with no water, and no idea of which way to go. I've panned for silver, dug for gold, I was at the big cattle drive when Montana turned 100 years old; I've been chased by a boulder down Bronco canyon on the run, flirted with a cow moose protecting her young; Hung for dear life from a 3000 year old Bristlecone pine on a narrow southwestern ridge, crossed a fifteen-hundred foot canyon on an ancient rickety-rope bridge; I've stood amazed on a red-rock cliff seeing the planet a hundred miles out, and the Colorado river so small, down below, where I felt the touch of God when I realized that old muddy water was the earth's beautiful blood flow; I've come face to face with grizzlies, a time or two, seen the veil between life and death open up, for just a quick view; more than once thought I'd pass through that door, in one of these wild tales I've had traveling shore to shore; but now have come to understand, before I'm here finished, I'll have a thousand more.