Everyone is happy, I exclaim—
half-inch rain after forty-five days without—
grass, trees, birds and animals revived,
the February air full of the future
as black cows and calves ascend
the green slopes across the canyon
reaching for the richer ridgetop feed
by evening. We raise a glass
to the generosity of all the native
gods and goddesses, to the crow pair
robbing nests and the bobcat trailing quail,
the ground re-energized—the vitality of life
spilling right before our eyes.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2022, Ranch Journal
The dark hole in the barn
that once was leafy, fine-stemmed alfalfa
for six-months feeding, rides on a rain
as wildflowers get ahead of the green
making color, making seed—a spectacle
that will eclipse the hopes and dreams
that drew us to this tipping point in time.
Seems we’re always on the cusp of perfect
storms, praying for enough that we might
meld into the wealth of these steep slopes
we belong to, marvel at the cattle
and forget about the money and the market
for a moment as we and our old neighbors
hold invisible hands and hobble around
the maypole to appease our pagan genes.
Christmas storms colored the canyon early,
purple brodiaea, blue lupine, white flakes of snow
upon the green as wildfires of poppies spread
slope to slope, mid-February, forty-five days
warm without rain. I used to think I knew
what it took to paint these hills with flowers,
like the warm spring rains in ’78
after the drought. Living here 100 years,
Nora Montgomery claimed she’d never seen
so many poppies in this canyon, solid gold—
nor I since. Each a fantasy, no two springs
the same, we live in the 10-day forecast
for rain, for grass, for cattle. The Old
Farmer’s Almanac predicts a backwards
spring, growing cooler through April—
we never know, and like the cattle
in grazing circles, we plod through time,
always eager for another taste of spring.
You see the sign and smell their cud
hanging low in the open
where they have laid, grass blades
pressed exchanging thoughts
and gossiping while fat calves slept
with dreams of more of the same:
no clutter of ambition or greed
living in the moment—
easily startled by those who don’t.
Gentle families: mothers, daughters
grandmothers grow to know you
over a lifetime, learn to read
your eyes, your mind—some
more curious than others
makes you wonder.
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