A single pod of seeds, the bare
redbud volunteer, come spring,
will obscure my view of the road;
the world beyond this black morning—
beyond the owl in the oaks above me;
the cobbled mumbles of the creek.
With the hillside chorus of coyotes
and canyon’s replies, the ridgeline
holds-up heaven’s brilliance
in a sky of stars—unabashed
and unafraid of any circumstance
that may engulf us all.
Despite warm temperatures and no rain for nearly 30 days, the calves have grown since we branded last in Greasy on January 9th.
Father and daughter, Garth and Audrey Maze pose before we start.
With a great crew, we made short work of big calves and were down the hill by noon. Thank you all.
Another cold dry front
rests upon the tops of hills,
shapeless clouds, a haze
upon steep south slopes,
red clay like brick—
green pales to gray
as we brand calves
one by one
we may sell early
with their mothers.
I brace against the familiar
drama, growing numb
as my stiff new rope
slides through the palm
of time’s softened hand,
warming as it searches
for my frayed
wrapped-cotton horn.
I quote my elders
dead and gone
as they visit
the branding pen.
Don’t worry, Dofflemyer,
E. J.’d say.
It’s gonna rain.
It takes years to get here
with cows we like—
unwritten contracts
they understand
as we discuss
our options
of who goes first
and who gets what’s left
of hay.
Of the two of us,
I am the dreamer
and believer—
a luxury
you have allowed me
facing facts
as I grow gray.
for Robbin
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2020, Ranch Journal
She was there
always for her kids
and theirs and theirs
with open wings—
quick to feed
and defend them.
Scrappy daughter
of the Dust Bowl,
rest in peace.
for Ila Jean Fry
January 17, 1926 — January 17, 2020
On our way to gather the cows and calves for branding last Friday, we ran across two turkeys fighting within a rafter of twenty or so young toms along the creek.
(Click to enlarge)
It was a quiet combat for dominance, yet none of the rest seemed disturbed nor cared about the outcome.
But as I began to photograph the battle with my point and shoot, the group slowly dispersed to leave the two toms battling alone.
It’s that time of year, I suppose.
Posted in Photographs, Ranch Journal
Tagged dominance, photography, wild turkeys fighting, wildlife
We branded a little bunch, the last of our Wagyu X calves, yesterday. It was a beautiful morning, despite our hillsides turning as we wait for rain. Three girls roping, Corrine Ainley Manes and Terri Blanke above getting ready to bring one to the fire.
Corrine Ainley Manes catches two.
We even had time for Robbin and Heston Manes to get reacquainted, glove on his right hand just like Mom.
Audrey Maze throws a perfect loop to help the day run smoothly. With plenty of help on the ground, we got the work done and had lots of fun. Thank you all.
Posted in Photographs, Ranch Journal
Tagged Ainley Manes, Audrey Maze, Corrine, Terri Blanke, Wagyu X
Always a joy to see Brigid & Johnny “Guitar” Reedy at the Gathering, to see how they’ve matured both on and off stage. Performing at the Gathering since she was two, Brigid made the cover of Alta Magazine on January 1, 2020. Now 19, she and Johnny (14) have been writing their own songs and Brigid has been writing a little poetry as well. A great show Monday night! We also caught a set with them on stage with Ernie Sites and the Sagebrush Ramblers at the the Stockman’s.
All recent history, we’re branding calves this morning.
Last night of the Gathering, I was surprised by this poster in a window of the Pioneer Hotel. Click to enlarge if your dare.
On our way home from the National Cowboy Poetry Gathering in Elko, Nevada, Robbin and I replay a collage of meaningful moments, fragments of conversations, poetry and music as we cross the Great Basin. Avoiding I-80 and Donner, taking the longer, southern route over Tehachapi instead, it has become like Groundhog Day, both coming and going over the years as we cross the pastel sagebrush expanse of the high desert.
Since 1989, I’ve watched the Gathering evolve from strictly traditional recitations to more contemporary expression rooted in a hands-on, rural ethic of the livestock culture where a man’s word is still his bond, where neighbors trade labor and the land offers a living for those tough enough to endure the whims of the weather. With more hugs than handshakes, it has become a reunion where respect remains high, but we’ve lost a few of the best along the way.
With many new faces, an obvious effort to inject some youth into the offering, it was invigorating and inspirational. Included in a great session with poets Forest VonTuyl from Oregon, Jonathon Odermann from North Dakota and singer-songwriter Tracy Morrison from Idaho, I was assured that the National Cowboy Poetry Gathering will survive with renewed energy and originality. My kudos to the staff for locating so much young talent residing in the West.
I always look forward to visiting and reading with one of my favorites, Patricia Frolander, past-Poet Laureate of Wyoming, pictured above. Robbin and I will continue to replay the moments as we get down to the business of branding calves. It’s good to be home.
Posted in Photographs, Ranch Journal
Tagged Elko, National Cowboy Poetry Gathering, photography, poetry
every valve
leaks a little
there is no
stopping the flow.
– Gary Snyder (“Fixing the System”)
I worried once
about wasting water,
steady drip
at the trough,
at the hose bib,
at the gate valve
green year-round
gathering tree frogs,
snakes and cottontails.
Raining crystal drops
rising with Greenheads
from the tailwater
of the irrigated pasture
on a Sabbath
with my father
instead of church:
he spoke into the clouds.
With the gravity
that holds us close
to this earth,
always a little
leaks by
to remind us.
(click)
