It is a study for the shrinks and anthropologists,
a someday segment for future scrutiny, corrals
along the road,
tight-clad and helmeted
bicyclists in the mist, sailing
past black cows sorted
from bawling calves, breath
clouds rising, steaming
in the unforecast wet before we brand, before
the steady rain that did not deter, did not dissuade
the throw-back purpose for the day.
Winter wet hair glistening between cockleburs
gleaned along creek banks overnight
from last year’s rains, tall battalions of dry stalks
waiting for milk-fat calves to carry on, to carry seed
into the future, but for the bare squares sheered
from each right hip, the clippers’ whine that begs
a gas-driven generator to cough and purr from idle,
time and again, to override our quips and conversation.
No slices of silence, vibrating
in a pickup bed, lashed
and wanting to escape—
stiff orange cord dodging
tangles with legs, steel shod
hooves in slick clay.
Kinked and gritty nylon twine wears rawhide
and leather burners slow to slide, or refuse
to build into a loop—my fingers raw and red,
too numb to tell coils from reins—my lariat
eats deeply into a cotton-wrapped horn
when I catch and bring a calf to the fire.
I stare off once again, another branding
in Homer’s Cove, grinning now into the rain.
Working together on the ground, wet hair
plastered to your smile, we grin and look
like children, but for the gray and canyons cut
by time and sun, running rivulets as we bow
to each calf, little river waterfalls off my brim—
a cadenced mantra of needle injections, tag,
earmark and brand—gobbed white fat spilling
from bull calves. Before the last one
slides to the fire, before we need cleats
for traction, before the muddy group photo
that includes the horseback family
that connects us to the magic
of New York’s ticker-tape parade
for the 2012 Super Bowl champs—
but especially the placard
that loves Bear’s tight end.
for the Pascoes
drycrikjournal 