The Spaht side of my family, my mother’s people, were rugged, raw boned cowboys for centuries. And while I didn’t write this poem (I wish I had), it’s always held special significance to me as it was created by someone within that ancestral line and passed down through generations until it finally reached my siblings and me via my mother’s soft, controlled voice. Her eyes still tear up when she recites it for her children and grandchildren, so close is that dying breed of man and the animals they nurtured to her heart…

Is it for your ma yer bawlin, Little Calf?

Is it her that yer a callin, Little Calf?

Do you think she’d prove a quitter toward a helpless little critter?

Don’t you know your mammy better, Little Calf?

Yes, I hear your tone so pleading, Little Calf.

As if a youngster’s heart were bleeding, Little Calf.

If your ma could only hear you, why you know, son, she’d be near you

just to nourish and to cheer you, Little Calf.

You ain’t all this winter’s busted, Little Calf.

With the short feed, snow and crusted, Little Calf.

Buckin snow drifts was a tussle and your mama had to hustle

for the feed it took to nurse you, Little Calf.

I rode past your mammy yonder, Little Calf.

There were coyote tracks around her, Little Calf.

All these cold, bleak months she’s striven, trying to keep you both a livin,

and for your life, her own’s been given, Little Calf.

Author Unknown