"I could kill you with an orange," J.W. said when I brought up the subject. Of course, J.W. claims he could kill you with just about anything.
"You kill me when you iron your Wranglers," I responded under my breath. He didn't hear me, and I wasn't gonna say it again, in case there was an orange nearby he might get his hands on.
"Another whisky," I said instead to the bartender.
J.W. didn't take up the challenge like I thought he would so I settled into my thoughts. I've written a lot of cowboy poetry in my life, maybe because there's lots of time at night under the stars when your mind sorta wanders in that direction.
I wondered when you might ever even need to use the word "orange" in your poetry and found myself caught in another mind trap.
I guess you could be workin' a ranch in Temecula, and have a calf wander into an orange grove. No, not much poetry there.
Then it hit me. Sometimes the sunsets on the range are so colorful you can almost taste them from your saddle. Sometimes they're orange.
Then I thought about all the cowgirls I've ever known.
Well, the poem never did get very far. I couldn't think of a single cowgirl I've ever known who would forgive me for it.
Am I Pretty?