Author Archives: John

You may someday find me here
among the cattle, in the branding pen,
around a fire or find my fence repairs

and wonder why I took so long
to wrap my splices—stack them
either side of rusty wire like dallies

on a cotton-wrapped horn—drops
of blood and sweat at each tangle
without gloves, young fingers strong.

Built after the war, damn-near
every fence was old when I got here,
got to follow hurried hopes of holding

for the moment, got to cussing
those before me. I learned their work.
How I hated those first ten years

of fixing fence. But someone will say
I must have liked it towards the end—
usually choosing to work alone.

We acknowledge gods we know
in passing, leant their blessing,
helped keep messy jobs clean.

I draw the moving X from ears
to eyes to intersect just above
the imperfect star and look away

to hillsides greening, ridgelines
high into the blue. Blinders on,
I focus and squeeze as the knees

buckle and I can breathe, red
gushes upon alfalfa upon fresh
green—life old and new remain.

No wonder it was a grand reunion
of all my dead friends just before
I awoke, hugs and laughter,

random glasses tipped to eternity.
No wonder I believe in gods
that can take me where I want to be.

                                                  You can’t starve a livin’
                                                  out of a bunch of cows.
                                                            – E. J. Britten

We watch the weather in the winter,
gather where we can between rains
branding calves before they grow
to be work, while it’s easiest on them

between clips of the aftermath
of homegrown terrorists, or Falstaff
as his crew of postured orators
waving grandly at God as if to claim

His omniscient endorsement.
There is much to fear, nowadays:
the flu has taken over California—
gun permits at an all-time high.

They have extended parts
of the Farm Bill, re-subsidized
the dairy guys, but let the droughts
slide with not enough votes to matter.

We watch the weather on winter nights
and wonder why no one seems
to understand that starving a farmer
won’t help keep your plate full.

Another new year in the middle
of a week, of a lifetime yawning
awake under cold empty clouds

above the Live Oak crackling
in the branding barrel. Uphill,
lying on a granite rock, a coyote

watches horses being bridled,
cinches snugged, doesn’t know
what day it is, doesn’t hear

the rifle shot. Last year’s seed
is short, easily turned under hooves
sorting cows from calves, perfect

for two young men on sorrel horses
in a small pen, perfect for heel loops
and black calves stretched and rolled

for the iron, the dance, the works—
perfect, you remark, for the garden,
stirred and fluffed with years of cattle.

We talk of guns I’ve never shot,
muzzles in a corner, barrels prolonged
in twenty-year kisses, begun when

I was a young man pressing fences,
when Bill Clinton was our President.
Out here, no one cares what day it is—

religion and politics take a back seat
to the tangible we need to exist—
like horses and cattle, coyotes and hawks.

Twenty years ago I would have fought
for a chance at this life, even died
to protect it. Now, we dare not stop—

squeezing each moment instead of triggers,
one heavy step ahead of the other
packing things we don’t need, anymore.

After wet holidays,
cattle high on hillsides
slick and leaking,

stray snow flakes dance
like tiny leaves
over the fence between

neighbors making plans
to brand and celebrate
another New Year’s Eve

well-before midnight.
Silence mid-sentence
punctuates the cold

and red scarf wrapped
beneath your eyes
like a terrorist

off the mountain
when you would rather be
reading a book

by the fire
with nothing else to do
on the Sabbath.

                                   for Steve

Despite advice, nobody tells us
where or how the journey ends—
how deep the dark holes
or demons living therein.

Cut to the hollow words
of war drums to follow
bright blood trails back
to the stench of burning flesh

on diesel smoke released
to every shade of jungle green—
home of all the unknown
souls that there remain.

Or winter phone call
from your trailer banked
behind bales of straw,
pistol on the shelf—

we decided to wait
until morning.
Become brothers
twenty years ago,

I would come for you.
There is nothing left
to save today, but
tomorrow’s memories

floating above it all—
your separate stream
of chuckling wit
still laughing at the sun.

                                        for Rod

Feeding horses winter mornings,
I turn the key to hear the click,
watch the fuel gauge needle flinch

as glow plugs heat for injected diesel
before the Kubota fires to make my rounds
and save old legs for another day.

Backing into a swirl of first exhaust,
I pause to inhale the unmistakable
past that reappears in freezing air:

taste and smell the smudge pots
along every road and dirt avenue
between Exeter’s citrus trees,

battalions of flaming sentries purring
beneath the roar of wind machines
and ever-twinkling frosty stars.

I become where I’ve come from
and roll towards the barn cats’ bowl,
faces of horses waiting patiently.