Author Archives: John

TO SAVE THE DAY

                                        I knew a man once,
                                        lived a long and prosperous life,
                                        tending his own business.

                                                – Joe Chinowith

Vegans, no more than vandals cutting fences.
Thin black cows onto a mountain road at night
to graze a narrow shoulder headlights miss

on the curves. Children, juvenile delinquents
out to save cows to kill someone coming home
late from work, blinded by their ignorant

self-righteousness. Everyday, five months now,
feeding cows without their help in this drought,
they’ve just arrived like Mighty Mouse.

 

We’ve heard the rumors: thin cows, fences cut up the canyon. Inquiring phone calls we’ve been unable to address because we’ve been busy feeding our own cows since the middle of August and haven’t been up the road to know, but we do see pickup loads of hay, everyday, headed in that direction, gooseneck loads of cows coming down. It’s a drought.

Yesterday, I went up the road with a reporter from the Fresno Bee at his request. With over a hundred complaints to the District Attorney’s office and inquiries at every level of the State, this is now news—most all of which has been generated from Facebook.

What cows we saw we’re cleaning up alfalfa hay, about 40 head in a five-mile stretch, half of which had calves. They were thin like most cows in Tulare County, but obviously not neglected, most with too much belly to have not been fed on a regular basis.

Without looking too hard, we found at least half-a-dozen places where fences had been cut and recently repaired, and as many unlocked wire gates that were reportedly thrown open last week, putting human lives in jeopardy. It’s tough enough to take care of cows in a historic drought, but having to deal with vandalism and bad press has made this an irresponsible and emotional issue.

The Dry Creek canyon is on the alert, taking license plate numbers of all suspicious vehicles.

LINKS:

Last Chance for Animals – facebook

In Defense of Animals – facebook

Fresno Bee

CHANCE

Locating the middle of a drought,
like chasing rainbows, is
impossible and important only

to guess how tough we must yet be—
how much barn grows empty,
how much heart, the cattle.

Another wet forecast dashed – – – –
storm door closing north, we are
amazed how easily a chance

rekindles hope, enflames skies—
its dry tinder igniting on a breeze.
We are like the good cows

ever-trusting in the hay truck,
in the pastoral gods and goddesses
returning to nurture the earth

next week? next month? next year?
We plan brandings around each chance,
yet to dream of giving-up.

WORTH

The old man knows, looking up
across his dusty pen, ears alert,
head half-below his withers,

like a grandfather over spectacles,
watching me stir the gloaming,
light the barbecue for dinner,

say hello. No hurry now,
he holds this pose: a long paragraph
off his chest or the same sentence

I can only imagine, repeated—
but still can’t answer. He’s talking
over the fence and across

the brown Bermuda grass lawn—
the same look the Bay horse had
in his twenties that unnerved me

each time I haltered a dream
with younger horses. But this time
we both know we’re old.

                                                            for Red

VOILÀ

A rough-haired cow relieved to graze apart
from fat calves at the bottom of the mountain
yearns to feel the chemise and manzanita claw

and comb her hide—stays away, sometimes
overnight for days. Weaned a little everyday
we breathe, those details that sustained us

fade into myth to fit each moment of discovery,
with each lumbering step uphill, until
we become less to finally wean ourselves.

Voilà! A playful calf again, humped to buck
at her side, only to run recklessly
across pastures before learning how to stop.

Another Good Sign

6:30 a.m., 46°

6:30 a.m., 46°

Here’s another one I think I like better:

6:30 a.m.

6:30 a.m.

Image

WPC: Juxtaposition

WPC: Juxtaposition

Christmas 2013 – Wagyu tenderloins

Doing Fine

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It tried to rain. We grinned with glee last evening as it played upon the metal roof and dotted the deck—like kids, we grabbed our drinks to stand out in it: an immeasurable amount. Ever optimistic, Robbin suggested I free the dead bees trapped in the rain gauge. Though not enough moisture to settle the dust or change the smell of things, it was trying—it hadn’t forgotten how.

Waiting to hear the latest weather report, we’re exposed, like everyone else, to the news, mostly bad news and extremely bad weather other places like the devastating blizzard in South Dakota that killed over 20,000 head of cattle last October. Or the 2011 Texas Drought that cut the state’s numbers by 600,000 head. By comparison, we’re doing fine despite the dusty poems and photographs within this blog.

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As a result of our reduced numbers, warmer weather and more alfalfa hay, the cattle seem to be doing fine as well. We know that our calves will be lighter this spring, and not as many cows will breed back to calve next September. We also know that selling cows to buy more hay is not a sustainable business model, but for the moment, most of our cows are OK.

We’ll miss our friends and extended family at the 30th National Cowboy Poetry Gathering in Elko that begins next week. NCPG We so wanted to listen to Temple Grandin deliver the keynote speech on Thursday, January 30th. More than any other individual, Temple Grandin has beneficially influenced the handling of cattle in the United States and around the world. Her methods are humane, proven and profitable. The keynote should be uploaded to the website and YouTube by Thursday afternoon.

wfc_6095_poster_sm_final-nosponsors-200x266

Or if we’re busy feeding at the time, other performances are always available at the NCPG’s Broadcast. Also available at the Gathering, thanks to the valiant efforts of documentary filmmaker Paul Moon, is my audio CD in absentia, ‘Streams of Thought’. Dry Crik Press

Streams.a

So all in all, we’re doing fine.

The Good Signs

Great White Pelican

American White Pelican

This morning, while feeding, we ran across a pair of American White Pelicans in our irrigation pond. I don’t remember ever seeing pelicans around here, but I don’t remember everything. But we’ll take it as a good sign.

On my daughter’s blog for the archives she could hear 40-50′ waves crashing on the north shore of Kauai. On the midday news, the ticker tape mentioned waves of the same dimensions on the north shore of Oahu, ahead of hurricane force winds. High surf warnings are in effect from Ventura to San Diego Counties until Sunday afternoon. We’ll take all that as a good sign.

Today real clouds came in on a little wind to feel like rain, yet not exactly sure what rain feels like anymore, it felt good to us.

We’ll keep our fingers crossed for a change.

HOW COULD IT BE

Without cloud, without wind,
just dust rising in an opaque haze,
months of yesterdays the same—

a canyon the gods have forgotten,
overlooked while taking their business
elsewhere. This is no lovers’ quarrel,

no slow strip tease, no small spat
to make up with passion,
it will take a while to ever trust

these gods again. Perhaps we never
received notice that they’ve been laid off,
sacked, canned in the reorganization

of the planet, their replacements: bumbling
neophytes in seductive, hard-bellied struts
without wear, without compassion.

Perhaps they have retired, given-in
to changing times to watch the show unfold
without water—you never know.

Image

WPC: Family

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The twins, now over a week old, are doing well as it appears that “819” will raise them both. Currently relegated to babysitting duties (outside the frame) while the other mothers are eating hay, she’s doing quite well keeping track of her own two calves.

I am reminded of my poem “IO” published in Poems from Dry Creek reprinted below:

 

IO

On the horns of an infant moon,
the creek shrinks and pools
between sycamores and live oaks

as babies come to first-time mothers
bringing the bear tracks downcanyon
on the scent of spent placentas.

Black progeny of the river nymph –
white heifer driven madly by Hera’s
gadfly Oestrus to cross continents

and populate Asia – find maternity
perplexing at first. Yet, lick and nuzzle
the stumbling wet struggle to stand,

suckle and rest that enflames instinct
in all flesh. Worthy timeless worship,
no better mother ever than a cow.