© 2016 Neal Lett
The Sirens sing in each man’s odyssey,
in every woman’s role as Penelope,
faithful to themselves by all accounts:
old myths woven and those unwoven
memories spun yarn remembers
in the yet unfinished shrouds
in which we cloak ourselves, cast
into the present tense a tick-at-a-time.
No grace reliving past temptations
or heroics, those flashes dimming
with mundane routines of earthly
jobs, of quiet talk with our gods.
I can’t shake loose my need for truth
these days, always
skeptical of the latest news
sandwiched between advertisements
hawking sex and drugs to humans—
I sip the scandalous like wine,
leave to light the barbecue,
relieve myself
and let my unfocused stare
inhale the browning hillside
leaking five-months’ rainfall
behind the house to stream
along the gravel driveway,
past the pickup parked
where a rock wren pair
rebuild their home of stones—
Tor House in a tailpipe—
I need to see the truth.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2017, Ranch Journal
Tagged photography, poetry, rock wren nest, Tor House, wildlife
Always mysteries on the ranch, we look for clues, search for signs of the inexplicable.
Utilizing the Kubotas to get around the past five months, my pickup has been parked most of the time. A month or so ago, we noticed its exhaust pipes were full of gravel from the driveway. Removing the gravel with a long spoon, we found a loose nest where the two pipes join. We also a noticed a pack rat nest in the frame at the same time, started, we assume, while I spent several hours trying to drain the runoff from our corrals in early March, a nest that included a surveyor’s lath, marking the location of a nearby power pole, as it’s foundation. Because we found them both at the same time, we assumed the same culprit.
Though we removed the pack rat nest, gravel continued to build up in the exhaust pipes, and another nest removed that contained an egg and eggshell remains. Beginning cattle work, I often leave the gooseneck hooked-up to my pickup and park it elsewhere for several days in a row. We then noticed that exhaust pipe of Robbin’s car was acquiring several gravel stones of its own.
After Googling ‘nest in exhaust pipe’, the best suspect was a Eurasian Bushtit, a pretty tiny bird, but not native to this continent. I assumed the gravel was placed by its plainer relative, the Bushtit, of which we have many, but none observed around my pickup. But considering the size of the egg and that of the Bushtit, not much bigger than a thumb, I was beginning to have doubts as the gravel continued to accumulate in the tailpipes.
We enjoy watching the fairly tame Rock Wrens bob around the yard, collecting bugs, extricating spiders from under tables and chairs, cleaning window screens. Yesterday, one hopped out from under my pickup. Once again, I went online to find some interesting facts.
While I was blading a dusty firebreak along Dry Creek Road, Terri and Robbin went up to the Paregien Ranch in the Kubota to corral some dry cows that we’ve earmarked for town, when and if we can get to them with a gooseneck. Roughly 2,000 feet higher in elevation with 25 inches of rain, it’s still wet and boggy in places under our tall feed. They corralled the cows, but had to turn them out into the gathering field because it’s still too wet to load them. Afterwards, while putting out salt and mineral, they found a loblolly in the middle of the road that we have driven over several times this season with no problems.
Short of boasting this year, we’ve been fortunate not to have gotten stuck somewhere on the ranch considering our many close calls and all the ‘stuck’ stories we’ve heard from our neighbors. Sharing her iPhone photos, Robbin was quick to refine the definition of being stuck as when you have to walk home, or call someone to pull you out of a mud hole. Down on its frame, luckily they found an oak close enough to winch the Kubota onto hard ground.
With four years of drought fresh in our minds, we’ve not complained about our near-record rainfall, but it has presented a number of new problems, including not getting our upper-country calves branded before we wean in a few weeks—when and if we can haul them off the hill. Hard to believe it was 95 degrees yesterday. Careful what we wish for as we deal with a very different year, we’re looking forward to something a little closer to normal.
The noisy diversions
like crow and coyote
drawing mothers off
from helpless babies.
It takes a clan
to raise blackbirds, nests
stacked in the redwood,
a squadron to attack,
ride and peck the head
of a cruising crow
moaning in retreat
as its mate shops for squab
to feed their own.
Between the yard trees,
the cackling battle churns
with aerial acrobatics,
evening strategies,
each new act
our entertainment.
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