Monthly Archives: August 2013

August 2013—Weather

August 3, 2013

August 3, 2013

For the past week or so, we have been enjoying light gusty winds along the foothills influenced by monsoonal patterns out of the Southwest with a few light clouds leaking over the Sierra Nevadas. Temperatures still remain close to the century mark, but high temperatures are relatively short in duration as compared to last month when we experienced one of the longest strings of 100-degree days that I can remember. July Temperatures

A carryover from the days that my father raised Emperor Grapes, August is our indicator month for the fall if it is confirmed in September. Though there are but only a few small Emperor vineyards remaining, nearby Exeter advertised itself as the Emperor Capital of the World when I was a boy. Harvested from mid-September through October, it was important to know when and if a rain would spoil the harvest or the crop.

More than a two or three day hiccup, our current weather change seems prolonged. If confirmed, we could have substantial cooling, and hopefully some rain in early October. Current forecasts indicate another week of the same. Consensus among Robbin, Clarence and I is that it feels a little like fall already, despite the heat. Guarded against too much wishful thinking, I must admit it seemed a lot like fall yesterday as I made the rounds in Greasy, gustier and breezier than the lower elevations of the creek. It smelled like fall.

Though the cows look good, our dry feed is short and stockwater dried-up or under pressure in many places. The first calves should begin arriving within thirty days as we look forward to shorter days and another chance for decent rains and a good grass season.

MODERATION

                                        We are taught to be
                                        moderate. To live intelligently.

                                                  – Jack Gilbert (“The Danger of Wisdom”)

From the shaded corner of my eye, I watch
the old cows follow my hands, measure pauses
between steps, hang back from the gate

trying to decide. They have learned
the smell of urgency I deny—camouflage
with monotone interposed by gentle coos

and ever-so-small handfuls of fresh alfalfa
left like breadcrumbs. They forsake great space,
fall in line, cross the threshold to be confined

as I walk among them, yet they have not lost
their fear and passion I can ignite
into wild-eyed stampede if I have lied,

if I let doubt or anxiety escape my mind.
Moderation: sage advice for slow progress
that without passion becomes meaningless.

BETTER SENSE

I am not obsessed with it, despite another friend
whose eyes have rolled back behind his lids
as if to dream of something else for awhile
on new and endless landscapes: some manicured,
some wild, I imagine—it could be hell, otherwise.

There are so many ways to see if you look, and
so much of that looking is stitched in the cosmos
of your mind. Perhaps it finds a kind constellation
or star to forever inhabit, or just hangs in near space
breathing in and out of the open pores we nurtured.

A track we cannot see, but feel and understand
is real and shaped for certain places, certain
loves or things for certain human beings. Or
what good are blathering old men if they can’t
help, offer something other than a black wall?

Blessed is this slow dementia that hears voices
atop ridges and off the slick steep slopes,
around gossip rocks beneath the oaks to find
rhymes I want to hear that make better sense
of living well than what’s for sale.