Author Archives: John

The birds move in and out as they please,
but some stay, like you and I, to watch
the arrival of guests bringing something

to the party. Even the town pigeons fidgeting
on the barn roof beneath a skyful of hawks
can bring humor and drama to a dirt farm—

to bare ground fenced and cross-fenced.
These are repetitious, pastel days of browns
and grays washed one upon the other

preparing for winter rains that never come—
like all the Mallards and Pintails waiting
somewhere north for a storm to follow.

Meanwhile, we visit with the Phoebes
feasting on a new hatch of gnats. The earth
seems to slip as the quail roll in from the hill.

Roadrunners snag the last of the butterflies
while hummingbirds and honey bees
get down to their buzzing business

upon fading purple plumes of Mexican Sage.
Some leave early and some leave late—
we just don’t know who’s coming next.

We know how to live
day to day,
from if to if—

the first word
to begin each thread
we follow to connect

tomorrow, weighing
elements and trends
of hay, grass and rain.

We come to despise
the empty promises
of weathermen at night,

see thin cows in our sleep.
The light is low,
leaves on fire

as cotyledons hesitate
on naked hillsides.
No one knows

and only a newcomer
or a fool dare predict
weather in California.

A little rain and two damps days,
the heifers have left for the ridges,
for the first grass,
before the cotyledons spread their hands
above your father’s ashes—it’s glorious
before the light of dawn.

Outside my den, a falcon watches
from the snag, surveying hillsides,
listening to far calf’s bawl. Our world
moves to another beginning
we cannot stop—it’s glorious
before the light of dawn.

                            Too poor to pay,
                            Too rich to quit.
                                    – Velvet (“Gunsight Ridge”, 1957)

We tread water in a river of time,
run a ranch against the current,
raise cows and write poetry

in the gloaming—
know no better
way to stay alive.

We know they are more than dots
on a hillside that changes color
constantly, no matter how much

we wish it would stay green.
Sometimes we serve them
the best alfalfa hay we can buy,

read their habits and listen
for instructions. We even pray
to their gods for relief, for grass,

for rain. Given time, we learn
to think like they do, understand
what it takes to get along

with the weather, with politics
and the price of beef, but
most of all, with each other.