Slip-sliding in the white stuff,
My horse aint real impressed.
She plods a long, her head hung low,
Ears pointed East and West.
We are passing a lovely alpine meadow,
This from memory I know,
At the moment, I canít see a thing,
Beyond the veil of falling snow.
The leaves arenít off the alders,
The ground aint frozen yet,
And we wouldnít mind the weather,
If we werenít so dog gone wet!
Other articles by Mike Puhallo