Gray rain at dawn,
colorless silhouettes of sycamores
filigreed, having lost half their leaves
to the Christmas gift of storms
after a month of fog—we pray
the world beyond will pause
for a breath, follow suit,
find a common sense of peace
like black dots of cattle
grazing ridgetops, chasing green
reaching for the heaven sent
miracle of rain.
Handy in the wild, I dodged death enough
to not fear it, and wore the bluster like a shield,
my coat of arms that some men envied,
while old men touched eyes quietly aside
predicting my comeuppance someday soon.
Some escapades were tales circled back to me
I had forgotten, or in retelling, so embellished,
unrecognized. Today I can’t lay claim
to what could have been fumbling with the facts.
Over Franklin’s scree, down
the slick, snow-polished slabs of granite
where Snyder’s crew put fire in the hole—
rough purchase for horseshoes,
a string of packed mules tip-toeing
the steep head of Rattlesnake Creek,
a tangled wreck of loads and legs
postponed to a young man’s nightmares
once more kindling the hot blaze of fear.
Always snakes at Cow Camp
half-way to the Kern
where all but the nostrils of mules
gone under an afternoon’s current:
dally and spur to the other bank
for all to drip and collect their breath.
I woke to the bell mare in the dark,
headed upcanyon I tracked at daylight
across the river filling boots with snowmelt
twice, horses and mules
back across to meadow grazing
just to catch big rainbows.
Posted in Poems 2025, poetry
Tagged Big fish, Cow Camp, Franklin Pass, Gary Snyder, Kern River, Rattlesnake Creek, Sierra packing
No sun forecast to ignite the leaves,
but a raft of clouds before the storm
Christmas Eve, an atmospheric river
to fill the creeks and streams.
In 1955, Mill Creek’s rising measured
on the hour, on the concrete
steps into the house full of kids
and stacks of unopened presents.
Cut’s Studebaker pickup towed
our ’53 Buick out of a hole,
waves of the Kaweah swamped
its headlights on the way home.
It’s swirling now around the planet
bumping the coasts of continents
with the miracle of rain
sustaining earth and flesh
by the design of details
yet to be noticed and digitized
when Dad would watch neighbor’s windmill
for confirmation, three days out
of the southwest, or by his journaled cycles
see seventy percent success. Instead of signs,
we await the forecast and cuss
the weatherman when wrong.
for Marge Stiles (1919-2005)
We ride away from each other, waving our hands, While our horses neigh softly, softly . . . Li Po (“Taking Leave of a Friend”) No Luddite sure, yet technology’s unwanted intrusion reminds of the woodpecker’s rapid-fire assault on the eave, on the metal roof, on the smudge pot lids closed cold in the orchard when I was a boy. I wonder about their rattled minds, what natural shock absorbers slide like hydraulic cylinders between bill and brain to cushion their rat-tat-tat attacks on the world. Our push button culture saves jillions of steps that leave invisible trails nonetheless, for invaders we don’t want to see, don’t care about— yet tech has allowed me to know you and Chinese poetry from half-way ‘round this distressed planet.
I am amused with the new vocabulary of weathermen like “hydroclimate whiplash” during the atmospheric rivers a couple of years ago. I just read a new one, we’re on day 21 of our “tule stratus” as we head to Paregien’s to gather for Wednesday’s branding where hopefully we’ll be above the fog.
In the canyon
fog descending at dusk,
a gray blanket tucks us in
along the creek’s flaming sycamores
and silent trickle.
Wrapped in a cold cocoon,
insulated from the dreadful dramas
of an outside world,
we rest easily in the dark
with a taste of peace.
drycrikjournal 