via Book Remarks: How to Cuss in Western
Low snow up canyon, cold
rain at dawn, vernal pools
in the pasture stand full
waiting for Wood Ducks,
waiting for spring.
Sycamores stripped naked,
their white limbs wave
from across the creek
upon these ponds of water
in the evening sun.
Headlights slash the darkness,
a caravan of jeeps
and 4-wheel drives
whine down canyon—
weary songs back home.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2019, Ranch Journal
Tagged photography, poetry, snow, Sulphur Peak
Red, white and blue remind
of the friends who went
and never came home,
and those that did
that can’t forget
who they had to be—
of my father
and those before him
who believed
my Country, right or wrong.
How can I not be proud
of them, yet disagree?
I submit my flag
has been stolen from me,
waved to obfuscate debate
and silence truth.
But I submit my flag
as the genius to create
a more prefect Union,
establish Justice,
insure domestic Tranquility,
provide for the common Defense,
promote the general Welfare,
and secure the blessings of Liberty,
to ourselves and our Posterity
in the face of future
charlatans and Kings.
I submit my flag
as the backdrop
for partisan stage plays
where heroes become outlaws.
My Country, right or wrong?
Dry cordwood stacked, I crave
unpredictable clouds of change,
the cold and ice, the hail and rain
and the look of snow-capped green,
black cattle grazing an angry gray—
fancy whiskey in a glass with you
inside, woodstove sucking air to flame.
No matter what the pundits say,
it doesn’t change a thing.
The Dry Creek is up this morning with a 691 cfs flow @ 5:00 a.m. Midway through our 4-day forecast of 2″ of rain, we have received about a half-inch, with another inch promised. For those interested, current atmospheric conditions make forecasting difficult as explained at weather west.com
Posted in Photographs
Dim light above the kitchen table,
wet wedding rings beneath ceramic coffee cups,
shod horses fidget in the aluminum gooseneck
outside before daylight.
“Are Bud and Monte comin’?”
“Nope, just you and me, Babe,” he grins
showing teeth beneath his moustache.
“Any stars?” she asks. “It’s s’posed to rain,
you know, sometime today.”
“A few holes in the clouds is all,”
as he looks up at the ceiling.
“With a little luck
we ought to make it up the hill
before it gets slick,
get the cattle down
and be home by the fire
before it gets too wet.”
After a pause and long swallow, she asks,
“You know what day it is?”
“Thursday, I think”
“Is that all?” she lets trail on her way to the sink.
“Oh, I’ll be goddamned.
Happy Valentine’s Day!”
One of a kind! By my reckoning, it was over fifty years ago when I first heard Jack at the Ashgrove. Amazing!
Light dusting this afternoon down to 2,500′ on Dry Creek. Exceeding the forecast, just shy of an inch of rain overnight and this morning. It’s wet out there.
Hole in the night sky,
one last glimpse
before the eclipse—
red eye behind
a patch of clouds
and a quarter-inch
to drum upon the roof
while we sleep.
Decayed trunk:
ash and smoke.
Limb wood stacked
by noon
awaiting rain—
small deed
to clear a road
for nursery rhymes—
for an old man’s claim
on another day
to warm the flesh again
and again and again.