We had to install a new water trough Tuesday on the Paregien Ranch. Fortunately it’s a good spring and the trough filled overnight despite pressure from the cows. The overflow fills three other troughs that were recovering Wednesday by noon, after the cows had watered for the day.
Posted in Photographs
Out of respect, the spirits of the Yokuts
were revisited by Quail, invited to Wuknaw
to wait for Wild Pigeons in search of acorns
to return. Lion was concerned for his deer,
Coyote, Bobcat and Red Tail for their squirrels
as Woodpeckers gathered in nearby naked
oak trees crying: We’ll die, we’ll die, we’ll die.
Feral hogs were not invited. Only a few
spirits could remember how to survive.
Probably nothing more important in the month of August than water, especially in a dry year when native springs are the least productive, if producing water at all. With no water in Dry Creek for eight miles upstream, we have to pump water for livestock at several locations. The concrete trough above was poured by my father during the drought of 1947 and has become a mecca for native birds and ground squirrels.
Evenings thus far in August have been delightful, days noticeably shorter, about 30 minutes at both ends. It’s also 10 degrees cooler, hovering in the mid-90s with gusty breezes up and down canyon, especially at dusk. Atop the knoll where native women came to heal themselves without men, Rags and Bart (a.k.a. ‘Spic & Span’), raised at the Fairlea Ranch farther up Dry Creek Road and trained by Clarence Holdbrooks, are part of the family, part of the evening’s entertainment—though never sure who’s entertaining who. Our pair of crows usually roost atop the dead snag, an over-two hundred year old Live Oak that I imagine offered shade when the native women came.
Shadow, the slant of summer’s bright white
toned down, dawn and dusk bathed in yellows
glowing with promise and new beginning.
How I yearn for days dripping from bare limbs
beneath gray overcast within the woodlands—
the sound of it, each drop fat and collected
before falling—yes, how I yearn for that
assurance of change and a chance of rain.
Here she is, beautiful, dancing on the edge of it.
Posted in Poems 2013
Kittens are cute, but I’m not a great lover of cats. Between the barn and our log house, their function here is to help keep the rodent population, field mice, gophers and ground squirrels, down, as well as alerting us when a rattlesnake is in the yard. In exchange, we maintain a community bowl of food between the barn and shop. We lost our strain of Manx cats several years ago when two bobcats picked them all off, one at a time. Great hunters with kittens easy to give away, the Manx reestablished themselves with renewed heterosis among the McKee clan in Elderwood, a few miles as the crow flies over a couple of ridges.
The two white puffballs were deposited in the haystack inside the horse barn with ample rations. Robbin confirmed their survival the next evening with binoculars, but by the second evening only one could be seen. Next morning, both (a.k.a.‘The McKees’) had found the house, mewing incessantly, dashing any immediate hopes that the barn would become their headquarters.
Concurrently, we have declared war on the woodpeckers that prematurely picked all of our cherries, apples, apricots and peaches. Their population has exploded on the ranch and we have resorted to pellet guns to hollow out a no fly zone around the house. All of which is to say, Virginia: the kittens are still alive!
I hear her in the tops of trees,
brittle oaks, stiff leaves moving
up the canyon. The rustling
of my flesh that can be teased
and led astray. I like it nonetheless,
knowing she’s both near and early.
Posted in Poems 2013
Rising in darkness,
as daylight tarries
upon the Rockies,
I swim their shadow—
float to the surface
of a black sea
as silhouettes of trees,
turn grim as bottom teeth
upon the ridgeline.
But no urgency—
we can breathe easily
into a day’s work
that waits in space
for color, for all
the light we need.
Posted in Poems 2013
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