Author Archives: John

Snow tomorrow, clouds low, wind bites
high on the mountain, on the Homer,
south side of Remy Gap. Cinch-up,

big calves. Black cows crowd the gate
for each four-hundred pound baby
to escape ropes and smoke, horses and

men before the storm – to find her close,
waiting to go back to steep home in the
hollows of brush and rock, seeps of water

ponded, to look straight-down on town,
river, and the mesmerizing highway where
cars trail up and down like ants towards

unknown purpose steadily. Shed
cumbersome coat sleeves, build and swing,
loosen-up right humerus and clavicle.

I was the young man here, once upon a time –
never thought it’d last – never thought
I’d ever weaken, choose slow instead of fast.

                                           – for Brent Huntington

Talking snow in California,
most calves branded, cows
milking heavy on the green,

we look ahead to spring’s
tall feed, hills painted
in flowers, everything

they offer in heaven, yet
it all depends on half-inch
rains, every three weeks

‘til the end of April –
a hundred pounds away
from doing it over again.

It’s supposed to be a business,
but bulls stray and take out
fences, leave work at home.

Then one year in five, the rain
forgets where we live, coming
down to the next sixty days.

Only now, does she allow entry
up Ridenhour as dawn glints
off goosenecks through bare oaks

below, rumbling of aluminum –
saddle horses brace the rutted cut
after weeks of rain, month of sun

on the steep, south slope – small
poppies first to rise in welcome
to her refurbished hall, narrow

draw with water pooled to fall
off boulders beneath nearly-naked
buckeyes posed: green feathers

upon gray fingertips. We drink
deeply and hold our breath,
climbing higher to brand calves.