1.
We feed on numbers,
irrigate and harvest plans
with shaved efficiencies,
measure our well-being
by more or less
with what’s on paper
so easily burned
or suddenly erased—
we forget who we are.
2.
We share amounts of rain,
compare numbers
with the neighbors,
too often disappointed
with what we need most:
just enough moisture
to revive this ground—
this flesh and our more
common senses.
This old ground is on the move
and we have changed it
with our dreams of improvement
that humanity demands
to level mountains, harness rivers,
pump valleys to collapse
with efficiency and startling success—
then we foul our surgeries.
Beyond the road and fences,
these bare hillsides have begun to breathe
since she spent the night, whispering
upon dry leaves clinging to the last of life.
I am awakened, as if she never left,
wrapped in the soft applause of her arrival
bringing the gentle miracle of moisture
as this old ground comes back to life.
Thin starts lay limp
as green fades to gray
amid the brittle stalks
of short-cropped dry
the cows have missed
as I open the gate
ahead of several storms
to search for Live Oak—
stove wood heat
with little ash
prostrate since
the 4-year drought
branded in my mind—
decomposing now
before my eyes.
Limbs ache with years
bent to this ground
chasing seasons of grass,
but red skies at dawn
reawakens the flesh.
Before the surplus oilfield pipe
replaced the split redwood posts
and creosoted oak railroad ties,
we remember the old board pens,
acorns tucked twixt crack and plank,
fiery lichen on the backside
of weather-worn 2 x 8s:
distant brandings—
deceased men—
voices imitated—
old saws saved
that we exchange,
each triggering the next
underhanded head loop loosed
to hang for an instant,
we snare memories
like calves to brand—lifetimes
stretched from hand to hand.
The high clouds had given way to sunshine by the time we finished branding a little bunch of calves in Greasy yesterday. Well off the road, it’s a luxury to be among good friends and neighbors who are exceptional help, folks who know how to make the work fun.
Though dusty, there’s a little more green showing at this elevation (2,200’) where we have received 1.72” of rain thus far this season, much like the beginning of the 2013-14 drought year where we had less than 1.5” of rain in Greasy through the month of January. Our 10-day forecast is dry.
Leaving the feed grounds
for the ridge tops
with their first calves,
native cows know
where the green comes first
after a little rain
softens the clay
for cloven hooves
and the climb up.
These are not dumb
welfare cows
that we have raised
and fed for months—
but smart survivors
to make us proud.
The old timers built traps
with limp ropes
in small branding pens
before the team ropers showed
to take their place,
as time overtook them
and their steady horses.
Almost anyone can catch
two feet going slow and easy.
Homer, Earl, Dave and E.J.,
I can picture them now
roping just like me.
How could we know
the plans of goddesses and gods
with so much going on, busy
saving and taking lives,
sorting souls
amid this Covid,
while tilting the West
out of range
of the good storms—
bare acres everywhere you go.
If even a shower
could bring some green,
cattle market’s gone to hell.
With everybody begging
for change, the pipeline may be
plugged with prayer overload,
or perhaps our deities
are just teaching a lesson.