Sunday Stanza: A Place Called Mountain West

In 1977, a veterinary hospital was built—
On Springville’s edge, where sunlight spilt.
Land stretched wide and far without a sound,
Just trains and wind and lots of open ground.

On 400 South, just past the track,
No neighbors close, no houses packed.
A vet moved in with modest grace—
And healing hands to fill the place.

Dr. Harold Davis set the tone—
With quiet skill, he worked alone.
No gleaming sign, no grand façade,
Just care, commitment, and gentle nod.

The lobby carpeted and worn,
A place where lambs and pups were born.
Where collars jingled, leashes tugged,
And grateful clients cried—or hugged.

The years marched on; the skyline changed.
The green gave way to streets arranged.
But though the town grew bold and wide,
The soul of that small place survived.

In twenty-fourteen, winter air
Was crisp the day I settled there.
With keys in hand, I crossed that floor,
To take the reins and guard the core.

Since then, we’ve laughed, and we’ve endured—
Fixed broken limbs and lives assured.
We’ve birthed in barns, consoled in rooms,
And held old paws through quiet gloom.

The tools have changed, the world moves fast,
But some things root and simply last—
A vet’s resolve, a healer’s vow,
And walls still holding purpose now.

They bring us pups, then years go by—
We see those same dogs until they die.
And through the tears, a truth rings clear:
They’ve trusted us, year after year.

So, pass that place and tip your hat—
To fields now gone, but not the past.
To four decades of fur and flame,
And all the love that built its name.

For time is short, and life is fleet—
But meaning lingers on this street.
And Mountain West still does its part—
With steady hands and steadfast heart.

DocBott