The Saskatchewan Matador

In daylight, signs of gloom approached
And on the people there encroached
With such surprise their breath it poached:
Would death find man or beast or both?
The Winter came and it sought gore.
A howling wind stripped the farmers bare
As icefields begged their sunken stares.
But yet, one farmer stood and glared:
The Saskatchewan matador.

Then tranquil field was roused from slumber
By a storm which promised thunder.
Courage failed like roots pushed under
Fields like graves devoid of wonder.
The Winter came and it sought gore.
A fight he promised, cursing sky
With toothless grin and knuckles dry.
The beast, it coaxed him there to die,
The Saskatchewan matador.

The bull attacked with piercing rain
But farmer dodged and laughed again.
With full-blown anger, red, insane
It toppled barns that held his grain.
And so the Winter got its gore.
Perfect blankets of levelled snow
Were now in pieces; blood was shown
Yet still there gasping on his lawn
Was the Saskatchewan matador.

As if confused, the bull froze still
Wondering when and how to kill.
But then the strangest sound did thrill
The man-- it was a bird’s sweet trill!
So Winter sank back as it swore, for
Peeling back the snow was Spring,
Letting life and birds take wing.
And so, again, one man rose, king
The Saskatchewan matador.