Sunday Stanza: The Road Calls

Blacktop ribbons stretch and spin,

under wheels that never quite settle in.

The night leans heavy, the cold cuts deep,

yet promises made are the ones I keep.

A collar’s slip, a hoof’s wrong turn,

a whispered call when the barn lights burn.

Through sleet and sorrow, rain, and roar,

I answer knocks at the midnight door.

A foal down hard, a heifer breached,

a frantic voice just out of reach.

I bring my hands, my tools, my heart—

to help where hope begins to part.

A life built not on gold or gain,

but on moments cradled in hands and rain.

A lamb’s first cry, a colt’s first stand,

the quiet weight of a trusting hand.

Sometimes it’s blood, sometimes it’s grace,

a tear-streaked hug in a muddy place.

To save a life, to ease the pain—

that’s why I do this, night, or rain.

There are miles to forget, and miles I won’t,

patients I’ve saved and ones I don’t.

But in every mile, in every ache,

beats a stubborn heart that will not break.

Years blur past in dashboard light,
Trading rest for one more fight.
The ones I’ve lost still ride with me,
Ghosts of grace and memory.

I drive the dark with hope held fast,

A vet, a voice, until the last.

Not for glory. Not for fame.

‘Cause the road still calls my name.

DocBott