Trim venison tenderloin. Season with pepper, garlic or chili powder to taste then place in red wine and brown sugar marinate and store in the refrigerator for 24 hrs. Marinate will form a thin cap to seal in the juices on the BBQ. Thanks for the backstrap, Chuck!
Posted in Photographs
A jagged black and blue horizon
divides my mind at dawn—between
the ethereal above and the solid
ground we’re planted on—each
day the line impressed unless
blessed with dark storm clouds
eclipsing the difference, clinging
to peaks and leaking torrents
I vaguely remember as cleansing
all states of being. The hills rise
to a broken edge on this divide
branded in my mind for life.
Posted in Poems 2013
While feeding yesterday, Robbin and I interrupted two young Red Tails at play. One stayed briefly for photos.
Posted in Photographs
They awake from dusty bed dreams
hungry and hope this is a feed day,
bawl for green alfalfa flaked across
brown powdered flats to assuage the dry
ache, some with calves at their sides.
But for the moment, they look O.K.
It’s every third day, not every other
where they stand and wait and the weak
are never full—everyday I multiply
and divide in my head: more bales
into pounds per animal averaged per day
to ignore them watching me load the truck
for somewhere else—don’t look too close,
don’t meet their eye. We gnaw square holes
in a stack under roof and roll the dice
betting on some early storms to change
lives, turn bare dirt into an emerald green
blanket grazed by black cows and calves—
that miracle we believe in every year,
that magic that makes all the difference.
Posted in Poems 2013
How sweet the supposition placed
in another time on this landscape:
the touch and swirl of old fantasies
that would have made good stories
when we could get along with our mounts.
Just beneath the surface, this ground
rich for vivid video, Earl brings
his book and tells of the hex, the cauldron
boiling along the ditch, witches’ flesh
in a naked circle dancing, he left out
to protect the living—yet grinning
as he shares it. There were few secrets
among the oaks, and space enough
for strong notions, odd ways, unholy
characters lurking in the grainy shadows
of black and white photos, blown up.
How we sweet the supposition
that we fell with grace—acorns close
to imperfect oaks to quell our sermons
summoned from self-righteousness.
drycrikjournal 