Author Archives: John

HOMESTEADERS

We are, of course, quite common people,
wrinkled and scarred – not yet immune
to dreaming, to the private illusions

we wear like subdued tattoos that tell
more around the eyes and hands. We move
with habit calling to be fed, searching

horizons at first light, filling mangers
from barns built to keep us busy
circling in the same place. Always

other lives off-stage in the wings,
like ladies-in-waiting to the queen
who rules the barnyard, we protect

near borders from wild encroachment
pressing, always pressing-in – we adapt
by adopting a most common sense.

BONE TO PICK

A post, a fence – little evidence
of generations grazing steep
chemise and fractured granite,

snow flats and sage, in that other
realm of wild rules – the raven rests
to compose his next poem, his next

creative exercise to badger and pester
the nature of whatever happens by.
Perhaps, feed himself at the same time.

No saintly aspirations, nothing
memorized – he’ll stalk a newborn
calf by dancing to nursery rhymes,

looking to pluck out an eye. Quick
study, he reads motion and mind
and mimics us all, chortling in flight.

Tree Frogs

It’s early morning dark, 48 degrees, the stars eclipsed by a tenacious, high fog as the tree frogs sing in a rivulet beside the house, from the hillside leaking last month’s rain. We branded calves yesterday at Tony Rabb’s and head up the hill this morning to mark a little bunch of our own. Our community of foothill ranches is branding madly, two or three, it seems, everyday, as good help gets thin.

Though the company of the little frogs croaking is pleasant, almost exhilarating, it sounds a bit too early for spring. All the more reason to get to work, when and where we can.

Balancing

I’ve rode by this rock all my life, in all seasons, each time wondering when and how it found its balance.

January Deer

Because our count and fences are always suspect, Bob and I went back to the Top yesterday in the Kubota to make sure we got everything gathered Thursday, planning to brand on Monday. All we found were deer.

BASIC FORECAST

We know how it goes
after a storm, sometimes
wet fog clings for days,

weighs on the mind
when we can’t see out –
can’t feel the sun move

within us. The first light
white will blind us,
before the colors come

reaching for blue, blue
sky and cumulus sailing
into shapes we recognize.

And so it goes from dark
tempests and torrents,
before the lupine leafs

from bare sticks, before
its purple plumes wave
into the buzzing, warm

pulse that will fade
again with the sun – yet
no season, the same.

PHYSICS

So much depends
on soil –

tire, wheel and
rain,

the position
of stars

and that distance
of time

between gravity
and grace.

AMONG US

Almost invisible, these gods
are not immortal, not
the all-powerful deities

displayed for symbols
and slogans – some haven’t even
a name to trade your mind

and heart for, like in heaven,
where pouting angels
look down with envy

upon their pagan games.
These gods slip upon you
around a flame, surround

like darkness, touch your
shoulder, or cover the flesh
in a dry rain of oak leaves –

they breathe the memories
of all that’s gone before –
living secretly among us.

Greasy Loop

Kaweah Watershed - January 10, 2011

The gray fog and low clouds clinging to these saturated foothills finally gave way to a little sunshine yesterday. This shot of the snowpack in the Kaweahs was taken from a ridge below Sulphur Peak. I attempted the loop in Greasy to check the cows and calves and to make certain that our bulls were still home working, and to assess the condition of our roads. It’s WET, water running, dribbling, oozing everywhere. With an accumulation since December 15th, our rain gauge overflowed, holding 12 inches when completely full – a lot of rain for this country in a little over two weeks.

Creek in the Road

I ran into the creek at the bottom of Sulphur, a part of the flow diverted into the road up the draw by limbs, leaves and debris that I was able to remove with a shovel and chainsaw. Remarkable runoff when one considers that the last significant rain occurred a week ago.

All the stock ponds are full and running out their spillways. I couldn’t complete my loop because the pond at Grapevine was going over the dam/road, and I had to backtrack through Sulphur to get off the mountain. Despite the cold on the Kubota, it was exhilarating to see some sun and cattle.

Slick - calves unbranded

(click photos to enlarge)

THREADS

                        Nothing you do can stop time’s unfolding.
                        You don’t ever let go of the thread.

                                      – William Stafford, (“The Way It Is”)

Out on Highway 99, silhouettes of semi-trucks
appear in the fog, grow into tiny lights ahead
or leer, big-eyed from behind in a blind rush –

up and down the Valley – like trains submerged,
caravans tunneling this thick and gray resistance
to time’s unfolding as the road grows longer.

The Real Birds came visiting in their Cadillac
and laughed at how I measured miles to Fresno
by the clock, grinning from a grounded dimension.

Our thread is not a straight line connecting cities,
but meanders more like a creek with gravity –
with the flow or against the current to its source.