Quick roping, Fast loping Calf all strain and fight.

Wet arenas, Cheap cantinas, No bed for the night.

High mile count, Hard on mount, Tread on tires slight.

Long score lines, Big bovines, Judges with bad sight.

Worn-out ropes, Damaged hopes, Confidence a fright.

Fifth once more, They pay four, Wallet getting light.

So it goes At rodeos- My complaints are trite.

-Rod Miller, Sandy, Utah

Cantles pound hind pockets.
Plastic shins caress steel.
Quirt pops launch horse rockets,
As they pivot and spin and wheel.
Angled against gravity they turn,
Clawing catlike, lunging out
Into the cloverleaf ’s stem they burn
Toward home with a shout.
Ponytails flying by the pair,
Rowels pound as crowds scream,
Cutting through electrified air,
Breaking beams in under fourteen...
Cowgirls run the barrel race
At most every rodeo I’ve seen—
But never, at any time or place,
Have I ever seen a barrel win.

-Rod Miller, Sandy, Utah

He worked the big ranches Of cattle and men. The things that he'd seen, The places he'd been.

His life seemed content here At our little ranch. Most days spent relaxin' When given the chance.

He showed lots of youngsters The way things were done. He always went easy, 'Till they were ready to run.

The grandest old teacher, Best of the best. When finally he left us, We laid him to rest.

We speak of him often, How our lives he enhanced. That once in a lifetime, A horse named Sundance.

-Blaine Williams, Odessa, MO