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 can’t see a thing,

Beyond the veil of falling snow.

The leaves aren’t off the alders, 

The ground aint frozen yet,

And we wouldn’t mind the weather,

If we weren’t so dog gone wet!

Mike Puhallo

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