This is the rock
you claimed last winter
beside the dusty road I traveled
with bales of hay—
your hole, your home
though I may own it
and all the ground around
the living wage you make
of bugs, beetles and mice.
This is your rock.
This is the rock
you claimed last winter
beside the dusty road I traveled
with bales of hay—
your hole, your home
though I may own it
and all the ground around
the living wage you make
of bugs, beetles and mice.
This is your rock.
Four years of drought have reduced the quail population on the ranch by at least half, but the covey around the house has fared much better than most. There’s ample cover here from bobcats and Cooper’s Hawks, and they don’t seem concerned with our strain of half-feral cats. But it’s been the regular irrigation of the garden that holds them here most summers.
The Valley Oak that we planted years ago and a resident Blue Oak have also benefited from the regular irrigation, both with good crops of acorns, most of which have fallen to the ground now. Whether crushed underfoot or decayed and rotting, they attract the quail, much to the displeasure of the woodpeckers who dive and try to drive them away from the Valley Oak, their tree of choice.
For the past month or so, the morning routine of the covey is to leave the Palo Verde tree where they spent the night, to go through the garden and stop beneath the Blue Oak for a snack, then parade across the yard to the Valley Oak, their tree of choice, for their main course. They seem to be coming to breakfast earlier, or perhaps the woodpeckers are sleeping in, but they haven’t been harassed lately as our temperatures drop to around 40°.
A little cold now for coffee outside, I finally went for the camera yesterday, having chastised myself for weeks for too many missed opportunities. Overcast after a light rain overnight, photographing quail and maintaining any depth of field was a challenge. Constantly moving and pecking, manual focus was out of the question and auto focus limited me to a single bird or two. My philosophy is to shoot lots of photos, especially with a digital camera, to sort out later. The photo above has survived some severe cropping yet maintained its unique feeling thanks to a good lens.
Trivia: Quail were among the messengers in native Yokuts folklore.
Posted in Photographs, Ranch Journal
Tagged acrons, Drought, messengers, oaks, quail, water, woodpeckers
A crisp and beautiful Sunday ahead of a storm, Robbin and I checked the cows and calves in Greasy, as well as the condition of our grass and water after the 1.5” of rain last week. We hauled a Kubota-load of extra hay up the hill for the cows in Section 17, most all with early calves.
Not all came in to hay: 6 cows choosing to stay atop the ridge, telling us what we came to find out. A few cows with larger calves show normal stress, but it’s a great start to a new season.
Though numbers are down substantially, cows were scattered everywhere we went, our stockwater ponds all holding some water now. With over 4 inches of rain to date, almost half of the rainfall we got during the whole of the 2013-14 season, and over a third of last season by the first week in November, we’re in disbelief, happy and relived.
No sense.
Nonsense.
Sometimes most clearly
through the eyes
of the bewildered
we see ourselves
spawned upon this earth
not as peacemakers
nor avenging angels,
but fallible and human
driven to plod on.
How do we find our grace
like salmon,
like rattlesnakes
born elsewhere?
How do we know the way
it makes us,
shapes us
into words,
into song?
for Merilee
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2015
Tagged expression, eyes, Grace, Home, life, photography, poetry, song
From the bunkhouse,
a thin ribbon of light glows
upon the Animas Mountains
hours before sunrise—
men snoring inside.
Long ways from home
I can’t sleep and wait
to make coffee before
the others stir themselves
awake before leaving
for the airport in Tucson
where I leave my keys
in the basket,
pockets empty in Phoenix,
pickup parked in Fresno.
Looking back
I should have known
I had nothing in common
with people who play
with Mojave Greens
sunning themselves,
absorbing warmth
like long flat tires
swapping ends to strike
right after they inflate.
Posted in Poems 2015, Ranch Journal
No longer children
chasing rainbows,
we want to believe
the drought is over—
look to the mountains
to shield our souls
from insistent cities
and a world at war.
Like native Yokuts
we want to believe
the ground can hold us
before we leave.
~
A trace of rain up-canyon yesterday afternoon as I looked up from my desk, inside after an 1.5” of rain, sorting poetry for another collection—working title: “The Best of the Dry Years”, 2013, 2014, 2015. A formidable task, like sorting 90 head from 900, it will take many more rainy days to complete.
The photo has that postcard-look of not quite real, a reminder of what a little rain can bring. Yet, I harbor some skepticism, not ready to say the drought is over, to set ourselves up for disappointment. But it sure feels good, nonetheless.
Weekly Photo Challenge(3): “Treat”
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2015, Ranch Journal
Tagged cities, rain, rainbow, sustainability, war, weather, weekly-photo-challenge, Yokuts
Rumors take wings,
names and places change,
swirl up and down canyons
like sycamore leaves
before the dark clouds come
to settle things for awhile.
Mouths full of dust,
we didn’t talk much
in the dry years
looking out and up
when we weren’t scratching
for grass and water.
Since she’s returned with rain,
the hills grin green
and reach to embrace us,
calling cows and calves
to the ridge tops.
The phone rings from town:
“was it a lion or bear
killed five or seven horses
on Cottonwood or Dry Creek?
I hear the Fish and Game…”
trails off in monotone.
All I know: it wasn’t here.
Look to the sky:
bare oaks branched
upon uneven ridgelines
filigreed against
the promise beyond.
In the shadows
faces forgotten
re-inspect the man
I cannot change
from this distance.
Black and white,
dark and light
contrast youth
with age. The trail
is never straight
up the mountain—
granite rip-rap
and switchbacks
beside cold creeks
swept into rivers.
I believe the gods
ignore the pleas
of certain men,
prayers of the sure
and careless.
Look to the sky
for the wet gray rain
to wash this moment
before we start over
and over again.
1.45″
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2015, Ranch Journal
Tagged age, black, clean, dark, gray, light, rain, wash, white