Another ant
in the anthill,
another bee
in the beehive,
another cog
on the treadmill—
I was bred to like work,
crave approval, but
make do with feeling good
about a job done better
than the last time—
an inclination to improve
the world around me
if I don’t stray
too far from home.
It was 63 degrees when we started in the dark yesterday to gather our replacement heifer candidates for processing, to meet the vet (Ken Fiser) for their Bangs vaccinations at 6:30 a.m. Cattle work goes smoother when it’s cool, but I can’t ignore the feminine influence of our cowgirls on our cattle.
I was raised in this business with a pretty good dose of testosterone, loud and wild, the camaraderie of men at a high lope in the brush and granite, tension and challenge, it seems, with every tick of a useless clock. It’s not surprising that our cattle were on the shy side. We didn’t know any better.
This photo says it all to me. Done with processing by 8:30 a.m., Robbin, Terri Drewry and Allie Fry are taking the cattle back to their pasture, just following really, as the girls spin their own brand of yarns. Most of these heifers have been away from their mothers for a month or less, yet they are relaxed because we treat every gather, every time we’re around them, as a positive training day. A pace that has slowed to one of cooperation, and I like it.
Always moments, nonetheless, when convincing with a little loud testosterone may be called for.
Like jewels glinting in summer weeds
as the creek retreats, Scarlet
Monkeyflowers, like faceted rubies
scattered among the cockleburs
within the rising green, flash
day’s first light before their tongues
unfold—unroll to sing to whirring
hummingbirds to pollinate their seed—
fine powder stirred with their foreheads.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2017
Tagged photography, poetry, Scarlet Monkeyflower, wildflowers
Pink bouquets
along the creek
ignore the heat.
Always on the edge of it,
the Valley fades into flat farms
and busy towns we have forgotten
beyond our circle of foothill cows.
Visalia lies somewhere in the haze.
Up and down the state
commerce churns cars between
RVs and trucks on US 99
we can’t see—yet tension turns
a wheel away as I leave
my window framed
in drought-killed trees,
yet still standing to screen
my wobbly presence
near the edge of it—I retreat
to more solid ground.
The days of busting brush
but polished stories, faded glories
washed by time upon this ground—
one-time mothers, the girls
remember, find their place
at feeders in the corral
where they were weaned,
to catch a ride uphill
to make homes for fall calves.
We have spoiled them, trained
for yet another moment
to work together. Too hot
to touch, the days blaze
soon after the shade of night
retreats in streaks of heat.
Robbin’s iPhone photo after following the girls into the corral. It’s been a warm week with temperatures over 110 degrees as we’ve weaned, processed and shipped our last load of bull calves to town. Polite and cooperative, these second-calf heifers hauled easily to Greasy while it was still cool. A smooth day—done before ten.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2017, Ranch Journal
Tagged cattle, photography, poetry, weather
Our temperatures have been peaking about 5:00 p.m. as thunderheads roll up the Great Western Divide. In line with Big Meadows and Cedar Grove on the Kings River, yesterday’s cell built and lasted about 30 minutes while we baked in 111 degrees on Dry Creek. Forecasters promise more of the same through the weekend. After a heat spell like this one, we usually begin to acclimate well-enough to look forward to 100. But at the Solstice, it seems forever for the sun to go down.
From Valley heat
great white ships rise
and ride the ridges,
buck canyons up
to pound with thunder
and dump with rain—
glorious downpours
I can smell
in the pines
and cedar duff
sixty miles away.
Wild bull calves we never knew
well-enough to brand
with months of rain,
creek too high to cross,
roads too wet to travel,
all gone to town now—
big enough to breed
their sisters yet to be
marked and aborted.
We thought the drought
was bad. But all the politics
and manipulated markets
yield to the variables
of Mother Nature’s bronc ride,
every jump, kick and surprise
without warning, never boring
when the weather gets her head
between her front legs.
As she warms up
to 113 degrees, we’ll see
what we’re made of.
We’re now on Mexican time: up at daylight and inside by eleven for lunch and a siesta. I am amazed how well the cattle, and especially the calves in the weaning pens, have managed to deal with the heat. Our ‘sip and dip’ has gotten plenty of use this past week, cools our flesh to the bone. Thank you Canadian Joe Hertz, fiddler for Cowboy Celtic, for your stone mason work!
Robbin and I left at daylight this morning to try to locate any cattle we might have missed in the Greasy Creek watershed when we gathered to wean over the past two weeks. Temperatures are rising with a high yesterday of 106 degrees on Dry Creek, mid-teens forecast this coming week that will accelerate our Sierra Nevada snowmelt.
It was refreshing to see Lake Kaweah, which is almost full, on our way off the hill at noon.
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