In every herd, there be a wayward steer or calf. Disappearing from the clear, descending from the path. The foreign roses seem fragrant until the thorns are met. The inviting oasis, now a thicket of prickling horn’s neglect. Freedom quickly becomes a prison in the ravine of brush. Isolated and deceived by pride, the cattle now sentenced to die slowly as they lie in this thicket’s eye. Up upon the hill above, a bright figure rides. The Brush Popper has arrived. Tall is he above his steed, scarred hands gripping the reigns in this time of need. Sweltering summers bitter winters no matter the Popper delivers. Storms weather the cowboy’s disposition, forged by the fires of hard decisions. Grim confidence does he display as his steed repels into the devil’s maze. The bovine whimpers and cries in pain, hoping the rider’s rescue is not in vain. As the popper enters, the bristling jungle yearns to feed. To strike for blood and bite with greed. YAH! YAH COW! The cowboy yells as the cattle battle to be freed. Yet they struggle against the chain-like vines, forcing the popper to ready the lifeline. The final resort is the cowboy’s toss and aim, the loop fitting to save from shame. The Popper pulls with no anger or blame, his duty remaining to guide and tame. The steer shifts and finds its strength, and its confidence follows the cowboy’s pace. The climb to freedom not an easy feat. But with a helping hand, the peak is reached. Back home the steer runs. Open plains glisten beneath the radiant sun. The Brush Popper’s grin unfolds when the rescue is complete. Another wayward soul steered to be freed. A job well done.
