I met Jane Morton at the Columbia River cowboy Gathering in Kennewick, WA. Ed Dailey puts on this gathering ever April. I run sound on the small vendor stage and fill in when a performer doesn't make it. Jane recited two stanzas of "Cowboy Poetry" and I asked her to write it down for me. About three weeks ago I started writing the music and looked for Jane Morton on the net to see if she had any other material. I also sent her an email asking for more material. She asked me to look at "Connected" a poem I had already downloaded to start the work of putting music to it. It is strange how I connect to poets and we both have the same thoughts. I have run into this with Mike Puhallo, Wayne Nelson, Jane Morton, and Jean Prescott. We start talking about music and lyrics and its spooky how close we come to the almost same ideas of how the song and lyrics should fall together. I hope you enjoy this new work of ours.

Cowboy Poetry 3/4 D-F#m-G-A The roundups, the calvings The brandings are done, As ranchers sell out And move on one by one We must tell the stories So memories live on Past time when the tellers Themselves are all gone Like snowflakes in blizzards changes come thick and fast Obliterates the landmarks that link ranching past We need tell stories share memories we’ve amassed To help the ones who follow Ride out the storm's blast Jane Morton/Bodie 6-16-07 Connected My father loved his cattle ranch. His life was centered there. And so, connected to that earth Knew who he was and where. He knew about its history, And its geology, And how his land had lain beneath A once vast inland sea. "The bottom land is rich," he said, "Where rivers used to run. The best land in the world," he said. "This soil is next to none." He knew each inch of pasture land And every cow by sight. He knew how good his corn crop looked In early morning light. He'd frozen in the winter cold On truck beds forking hay. He'd sweltered in the summer sun Out looking for a stray. He'd branded cattle in the spring, Cut silage in the fall. He seldom took on extra help, But tried to do it all. He'd seen the drought go on and on, And grass turn brittle-dry. He'd seen the price of cattle drop, Expenses go sky-high. The weather and the price of beef Were things he couldn't change. He couldn't keep a grass-fed fire From burning up his range. Beyond that, though, there wasn't much That he could not control Except the years that went too fast, And age that took its toll. Dad never would have left his ranch, For he had been ground-tied, Connected to that place of his Until the day he died. Although his body may be gone, His spirit's still out there Astraddle his old buckskin horse, He's workin' cows somewhere. © 2001, Jane Morton