We dream of coasting
into a ripe green pasture
that wants for nothing.
So little water, we left
pasture gates open, turned
ranch management over
to the cows until
December brandings—
forgotten plans
stirred and mixed
to leave with dust devils
for four years straight.
Then so much rain
the rising water
took every fence between
neighbors, cattle free,
to graze up or down
twenty miles of stream
too high to cross
to cut the bull calves
as late as April aspirations
bellowing and packed
into a swaggering
700 pounds.
We wade the creek
repairing watergaps
with black plastic mesh
designed to herd humans,
an experiment worth trying
to run a ranch.
How many pass without notice
as if chained in black caves
away from ordinary light
dressed in the shadows
of where we’ve been, shades
of time filtered into the present,
the parade of memories
and forgotten faces begging
a name—how many pass
us by?
My sister and I circled the mountain pasture behind the house in the Kubota after opening the gates to the flat below for the first-calf heifers and their Wagyu X calves before we drive the bunch to our scales and processing corrals next week. The calves need to be revaccinated before we ship them in May to Snake River Farms to be finished as American Kobe Beef. Not quite the same as gathering a horseback, she managed to see a lot of country where the cattle had been before we finally found them—a steep, rough ride nonetheless.
Gentle and Kubota-broke, our cows spend their first three years in our low country before graduating up the hill, and managing to gather them all was not a surprise, but offered an up-close look at the cows and calves for my city sister to see. Also, part of our purpose for gathering them a little early was to begin grazing the tall ripe feed around the house that will become a fire hazard this summer, despite the firebreak I’ve bladed with the skid steer.
Within a couple of hours, as if invited to Easter dinner, some of the cattle had gathered below our ‘sip ‘n’ dip’ for a visit.