Author Archives: John

Dry Creek

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The two Wood Duck pairs in the raft of leaves at the down water gap are only 100 yards above where the creek has made it down the channel. No raging torrent, the creek arrived here this morning. We’ve been watching its progress two miles upstream for the past six weeks or so, drying back with high temperatures near 80 degrees as the sycamores began to take on water to support new leaves. Typically, the creek is usually running by December, some years without the benefit of recent rains. The creek is the physical and psychological lifeline for all life in the canyon.

 
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It’s estimated that the creek carried 20,000 cubic feet/second during the Christmas Flood of 1955. The USGS gaging station was washed away during the Flood of 1967, relocated before the larger Flood of 1969 that measured over 14,000 cfs. According to the USACE Hourly Reports USACE, current flow is 5 cfs. Though paltry, we’re tickled to see it.

SACRED SPOTS

                                There are no unsacred places;
                                there are only sacred places
                                and desecrated places.

                                          – Wendell Berry (“How To Be A Poet”)

We listen with our eyes,
turn pages back, hear
and learn the language

of all-flesh praying.
Certain ceremonies linger
in the air, cling to rocks

thrust up from the earth,
always ready for the sky—
places young boys came

to become men standing
among the Blue Oaks
for generations camped

below. You will know them
when you find them,
when you stop:

sacred spots for gods
to rest and try again
in case we need to pray.

 

 

                                                      “How To Be A Poet”

WPC – Abandoned (2)

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A lone Blue Oak that has provided shade for cattle for as long as I can remember, well-before we hauled horses in gooseneck trailers. We still park and unload them beside the old tree to the gather the pasture, but it’s just not the same. Its limbs twisted within one another while alive, it must have been like a house of cards when the high winds came on August 18, 2013, to leave them resting against its trunk.

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WPC – Abandoned (1) …

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…before my time. The galvanized casing of an old water well, perhaps a windmill, elevated to fill a tank or water trough for livestock.

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OUR WINDOW

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Have I become so hardened by this prolonged drought that I am reluctant to express much joy with our recent rains, ever vulnerable, afraid to let my guard down? A drop in the proverbial bucket when considering the bigger picture, am I afraid we may be spurned again with only two months left of our grass season—too long in a dry rut?

But none of this obstructs our evening conversations, finding lines of poetry in the space between us. I pen my name—and you hear rain like applause on the roof.

WHITE HORSE INN

                                        Oh, the night came undone like a party dress
                                        And fell at her feet in a beautiful mess.

                                                  – Gillian Welch (“Barroom Girls”)

To fit the dark approaching rain,
you play your father’s Martin,
sing Gillian as I hum and harmonize

my relief in low and grateful moans,
learning the words as I go,
reaching for the moment written

to see our separate selves
sparking at the White Horse—
leave this thirsty ground

to replay our connections,
each electric flash saved
in the dark oak bar.

                                       for Robbin

 
 

“Barroom Girls”

Oh, the night came undone like a party dress
And fell at her feet in a beautiful mess
The smoke and the whiskey came home in her curls
And they crept through the dreams of the barroom girls

Well, she tosses and turns because the sun is unkind
And the heat of the day is coming in through the blinds
Leave all the blue skies for the rest of the world
Because the neon will shine for the barroom girls

Ah, the barroom girls go by your side
Like the ponies who pass on a carousel ride
And all of the colors go around in a swirl
When you dance in the arms of the barroom girls

Now she rolls to her feet when she can’t sleep no more
Looks at her clothes lying out on the floor
Last night’s spangles and yesterday’s pearls
Are the bright morning stars of the barroom girls

Last night’s spangles and yesterday’s pearls
Are the bright morning stars of the barroom girls

Songwriters
WELCH, GILLIAN HOWARD / RAWLINGS, DAVID TODD

Published by
Lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group, BUG MUSIC

Courtesy: MetroLyrics

 

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Flower Friday – White-Veined Mallow

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It seems a bit early for wildflowers, especially with so little grass, but a few Fiddleneck and Popcorn Flowers are also starting to appear on the shoulders of the ‘long pasture’.

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Wild Cucumber (Sierra Man-root)

Wild Cucumber (Sierra Man-root)

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Not a drought-buster, but the grass is happy—and hence, so are we.

Golden Eagle

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We’ve been watching a young Golden Eagle since the first-calf heifers began calving in September. Everybody’s hungry in a drought and the small Wagyu X calves had to be tempting. Yesterday, it landed in a tree outside the window to watch us. I’ve often thought we were entertainment for eagles.

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Click to enlarge.

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WPC – Threes (2) – Good Guys, Bad Guys?

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The sound of a low flying helicopter brought us out of the house, our horses nervous and uneasy. We assume it was looking for marijuana gardens in canyons that have been bone dry since the beginning of the drought.

Camera shy, they avoided the house, then headed to a steep pasture where a 75 year-old man is gathering remnants on a young horse. We worry. The colt would damn-sure blow-up if face-to-face with a helicopter coming over the ridge—damn-sure scatter the day’s work and maybe get someone hurt.