He gave up in late nineteen sixty-three
with the death of a young president
still firmly caught on a fence in his mind
where the wind fans desire to intent.
The other hands tried to console him,
but they offered their friendship in vain.
He seldom came back to the bunkhouse
and spent the winter outside on the plains.
He’s just too damn dumb
to come in from the rain.

He met her on a bridge in Frenchglen.
He was fishing, she was walking to the store.
Her face let something in him untangle
as an old wind blew through him once more.
He offered her some conversation.
She laughed and made it quite plain
that old cowboys were still on her menu,
it was something she couldn’t explain.
She’s just too damn dumb
to come in from the rain.

So they joined for a walk by the river.
She discarded her needs at the store.
He left his pole in the crook of a cottonwood
and they trembled at the opening door.
The air smelled of sagebrush and water
and tasted of the high Steens terrain.
Sparks brightly flew from their fingers;
their hearts were a runaway train.
They’re just too damn dumb
to come in from the rain.

Now they sip at the spring of their passion,
cupped hands hold the stirring of love.
Fondness comes alive like a springtime
where distance fits the eye like a glove.
They each stand alone but together
and tested by time they remain;
whittled and tooled like fine leather
they make the eye of a proud hurricane.
They’re just too damn dumb
to come in from the rain.

Too damn dumb
to come in from the rain.