Monthly Archives: November 2023

BUCKS IN RUT: ‘TIS THE SEASON

Yesterday, Robbin and I were checking the cows and calves on the Paregien Ranch while putting salt and mineral out when we ran into these two bucks and some does.  Because they don’t get much hunting pressure and familiar with our comings and goings, the deer are fairly tame.  Add the bucks’ tunnel-vision this time of year and it’s as if we weren’t even there. Robbin took the video from her cell phone.

We didn’t see many deer this summer due to the tall feed as a result of last year’s abnormal rainfall, so it was encouraging to know that their basic breeding routine has not been interrupted by all the drama and tragedies around the world—something solid to depend on.

BEAVER MOON

 

Once again

storm forecasts

have driven our rain away.

 

Stovewood stacked

against

dry cold fronts

 

like woodpeckers

stash acorns

for a rainy day.

 

 

GOBBLER BRAND

 

Over a hundred years ago

they herded turkeys along

the creek to market,

 

pioneered citrus

to harvest the gold

at Thanksgiving, 1914.

 

 

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

 

 

 

WINDOW GLASS

WINDOW GLASS

                                                      This to a man with neither courage, brain,

                                                      nor heart to find his way back home again.

                                                                    – B. H. Fairchild (“The Second Annual

                                                                   Wizard of Oz Reunion in Liberal, Kansas”)

 

I catch glimpses of faces reflected in windows

this side of the mountains the birds mistake

for open space—beak first limp upon the redwood

 

deck. Bell rung, we set them upright and wait

as most come back to life. I claw my memory,

open it like garden soil for names to nurture

 

at the damnedest times of day or night dreams

as the bird flies off.  Nothing’s quite connected, yet

familiar as my grandmother’s vegetable  beef

 

soup steaming on the electric coil

that blistered my hand red. My aunt would talk

politics back in the Watergate Days, swear

 

by Nixon, then take my side of the debate

between spoonfuls, beckoning me

from the other side of the window glass.

for Sean Sexton

SHEPHERDS AND SAILORS

 

Might as well consult the stars

than to foretell the weather’s future

on the whims of giddy goddesses,

 

gossamer waves blazing above

these palomino hills—cow trail dust

rising before the sycamores turn

 

to shed their autumn clothing

while shepherds and sailors await

a certain weather change.

 

 

ON THE CUSP

 

Red wave at dawn,

upcanyon forecast north

before the storms,

 

the rapid fire

atmospheric rivers,

before El Niño

 

or whatever clever

weathermen

tag as fresh nomenclature,

 

acronyms, fodder

for the inner ear to file

and the mind to find.

 

Red wave at dawn,

upcanyon forecast north

before the storms.