Monthly Archives: June 2013


Common Gourd

Common Gourd

Armenian Cucumber

Armenian Cucumber

Italian Zucchini

Italian Zucchini

Roadside Sunflowers

 Helianthus annuus

Helianthus annuus



Great hatch of birds, wild
turkey hens at dawn move upon
the short dry feed inside the wire,
quail coveys grown and begun again
cross the road, herons and egrets
occupy the sandy flats along the creek,
stand like sentries, claim their space.

Cherries, early peaches and apricots
gone before ripe, before filling
with colored juices—not one escaped.
This younger generation prefers
dry bitter flesh. Season opens with
a pellet gun feeding cats, kittens
playing with the wings of woodpeckers.


Pickles & Pickles



JRD Bertson 702-558

JRD Bertson 702-558

Remnant of our foray into raising registered Herefords, this son of MWH Miss Advance 558 has been with us since September 3, 2007, garnering limited duty until this past year. He has, however, been the subject of many funny incidents repeated in stories from us all. Slow to grow because we didn’t push him, and not quite the quality of our purchased Hereford bulls, he was a coming three year-old before we used him, and then sparingly. Year before last, we gave him work with our late calving cows segregated along the creek. Each time we added a little bunch, he was there to meet the gooseneck, on the run at the rattle, even if we were hauling horses. We failed to tip and train his horns down when he was young, hence his nickname: boss of all the bulls, going wherever he wanted.


A man can wish for shape and sound
that resonates with those he loves
when he’s away—that far distance

our hearts have yet to learn to leap
and be two places at once—to cross
the ink black sky, dot to dot, stars

as stepping stones to both sides,
our envelope in space between here
and there, the stream we swim

with the ease of trout, with grace
and poised efficiency, as matter
not yet facts we comprehend.

But a man must wish it first, follow
the splintered light beams, become
the dust long enough to find a way.


Something passes between eye and ear,
a glimpse, then gone, I can’t identify—a dark
blur or glint of the ethereal, or pinhole peak
into another dimension we have yet to name.

The hunter’s eye catching movement,
the cowboy chasing shapes beyond confined,
I am reminded of Tom Homer’s quote
passed down to me: ‘He looks—
but just don’t see.’ And sometimes

a glimpse is all we need to trigger, to inspire,
to stir the brain and then the flesh, or visa versa—
sometimes it is the yet unnamed
that begets a renaissance of thought. Here,
we leave the gate open just in case.

More Paint


The white fog lines were added Monday afternoon, but only extend a mile beyond our driveway where the asphalt narrows. Like some of the ground squirrels still hopping over the double-yellow line, we’re a little suspicious of all this fresh paint.


It all depends…



You should know how
to read sign, find water,
follow tracks and stars
and tell about it—how
to start a fire in the rain
skin a rabbit, cook the meat
and pick your teeth with a bone.

You should know how
to make the mundane rich
with detail and symbolism,
start your own religion, quietly—
to look through the eyes
of animals, trees and birds
to see yourself as common.

You should know how
to draw lines, share space
and learn to help.
You should know how
to create the kind of joy
you cannot buy
with cash or credit.