The Waiting for a Cowboy

I am 35 years old and 39 weeks pregnant with my first son. The waiting is one of a thousands walks through the summer heat and brush, wondering what is on the other side, waiting for the glimpse of the shimmering face of the moon. The hope is that this child wears his crown well, his cowboy hat. He will be supported in all his interests, as is the philosophy my husband Keith and I value and share, though there will be no denying the burning hope that the flicker is alive in him to cowboy and not make sense to all. The flicker to chase down his hopes and not live a victim to circumstances, to live strong, and large like his sisters and to wear manhood like his father humble, stout and tough as hell. We thank our Creator for your soul. Our angel we cherish you in the serene arms of the womb and into the stars of eternity your birthright and your nobility one of a line of misunderstandings, gambles and romance with all that is nature and above.  We love you little one and we welcome you with the grandest of joy and bewilderment, your ancestors, your uncle, your family near and far, your grandfather, your grandmother here now, your sisters Lucile and Lily, mama and daddy.