The Skies are in flux, temps driving the ponies to huddle in the stable, windows hazed over cold due
All will be quiet, and the chimneys puff wood combustion, the costs we rue
The burp of an air gun has bounced the silence, wheels removed for Snow tire replacement
The cold on the kneecaps , is proof of cement
The clink of chains signals traction must be sought
And there's Pizza for dinner, ready to be bought
The stars will gleam and the chill resurged
All the horses warm and the stall manure be purged
Riders in the bunkhouse, we'll watch for their presence
The Suds will coat the tables, with cheery effervescence.
Pintosopher, Cookin Humor by the hour