Cowboy poet Bryce Angell

We call it Squirrel Meadows. What a perfect place to stay. It’s nestled in the Tetons ‘bout an hour or two away.

The road is long and dusty, but it’s never overrun. That’s where a dozen cowboys went to ride and have some fun.

South Boone trail to Berry Creek was overgrown and steep. The switch backs on the mountain kept us moving at a creep.

We finally rode into the camp, kicked off our cowboy duds. Then settled down to dinner with the thickest steaks and spuds.

I cut a hunk of tender meat and raised it to my mouth, when I saw a man approaching. He was riding from the south.

He rode in on a bicycle. Said, “Got a place to stay?” He said, “My name is Fletcher. I’ve been riding hard all day.”

We told him, “Hop on down and you can stay here for the night. We hope you’ve got an appetite. You gotta have bite.”

Now Fletcher was a skinny as a toothpick on a string. I wondered how much food he’d eat, if even anything.

But Fletcher fooled the lot of us, with his hollowed out entrails. I think that lonely rider was dug out to his toenails.

He gobbled down the rarest steaks. That biker sure could dine. I thought for just a minute that he had his eye on mine.

He polished off the cream style corn. I waved the spuds goodbye. Then he finished up his dinner with a half a berry pie.

Well Fletcher’s healthy appetite was something to admire. Each cowboy gave a belly laugh while circling round the fire.

We talked and joked into the night, then no one made a sound. The cowboy’s thoughts were ‘bout the day, a good time all around.

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