"It never snows in April,"
the salesman told me that fine day.
With the sun a hangin' up above,
dark clouds all chased away.

The trees were standin' stately,
all decked out in crisp verdue.
'Course, evergreens is jist that way,
no matter what you do.

We had a spread in California,
jist as flat as you can get.
Six-hundred acres of hardpan
and a thousand tons of sweat.

It began to wear on the missus
and she started to complain,
"I'm sick and tired of all this sunshine,
ever' day is jist the same."

"I want to live where there's seasons,
while I am some what young,
And scamper across white meadows,
catchin' snowflakes on my tongue."

Well, boys, I knew I was a goner
when she winked and took my hand.
"Why, Idaho sounds so romantic.
It's so primitive, so grand!"

But I pondered it 'til Christmas,
then finally I had to give in.
The thermometer read eighty-two,
but it felt like a-hundred-and-ten.

I shoveled out the stock trailer
and loaded up all our goods.
We ventured across the prairie
to our cabin in the woods.

We moved up after Easter.
It sounded reverent and nice:
"The snow will be gone, the hills green,
and there won't be a trace of ice."

It never snows in April?
Well, folks. I am here to say...

It snowed that year ALL April,
and most the month of May.

© Cowboy Poetry by Stephen Bly
Art Courtesy Of Pat Baker Art