Author Archives: John

Branding Greasy 2

 

 

Though little went according to plan, we marked our second bunch of calves in Greasy yesterday. The cows and calves had been separated into two bunches based on the pasture they were gathered from, but when we arrived, the bulls had flattened the fence between them and most of the cattle were in one gathering field. We branded and turned them all out together leaving the gates open to their respective home pastures, just as we had done during the drought years to ensure that all the cattle had access to water.

To expect perfection is a silly notion with livestock in this terrain, but with the help of good and understanding neighbors, we got the job done with little time lost. Our objective was to have the calves in Greasy marked before the welders came to finish the pipe pens that Earl McKee started a decade or so ago, so that neither we or the welding crew would be in one another’s way. Too dry and flammable to begin yet, all we need is some ample rain. Thank you all.

 

 

PRECURSOR

 

 

Not quite the answer
to a thousand prayers,
for weeks of dry cold,

green grass graying
and crispy filaree
dirt-brown at a distance—

the red sky afire
startles the senses
and rattles the leaves

of sycamores flaming
before dawn’s light
along the creek, all

waiting to undress,
to bare white limbs
reaching for a hard rain.

 

Though still understocked from the drought, we’ve been a busy gathering this week, patching fences, feeding hay. We’d have gladly postponed this morning’s branding if yesterday’s rain had measured more and the road too slick to get up into Greasy. But the 0.11” was a pleasant change and rejuvenated the color of the surviving green, if nothing more. The bulls have been busy trading places, demolishing fences around the Gathering Field. We’ve got our fingers crossed that the cattle will be there when we and our crew of good neighbors arrive this morning.

 

ALONG THE SISKADEE

 

Pogue Canyon

 

In a younger, other life,
I cached my plews along the Siskadee
and boiled my traps in melted snow
waiting for spring to run wild.

Like the boney remnant of a tail,
a dangling DNA that spurns tight spaces
and authority, polite or otherwise
caged to submit to the majority,

my paternal and maternal predecessors
escaped West generations ago—
all odd ducks, genetic nonconformities
shaped by landscapes they learned

to adore. Apart from town, each
shrinking piece of ground has a history
of families adapting to progressive changes
in realities: fickle weather and faddish

politics without ethic or philosophies
that value truth or humanity.
I cache my plews along the Siskadee
and boil my traps in melted snow.

 

Mr. Wagyu

 

 

A handsome fellow, the bulls arrived Saturday after a long trip from Caldwell, Idaho to go to work producing American Kobe Beef for Snake River Farms, a subsidiary of Agri Beef.

 

NORMAL

 

 

The green is gone.
No need to say
we need a rain

praying privately
under our breaths—
no Congressman

to write to,
too busy with politics
to notice.

Gather to brand.
Feed hay.
It’s all normal.

 

RELEVANT REVERIE

 

 

On the other side
of Sunday school
and Old Testament tests,

we survived wilder times
with less rules. Today,
we take turns cutting calves

with meat on the fire.
At home in these board pens,
we can hear the old men

holler from Sulphur Ridge:
Dave, E.J., Earl and Homer,
chides, laughter and profanity

as we look back—
and up ahead we see
we’re somewhere in-between.

 

CALVES

 

 

How I craved the physical,
the hot rush of blood
within my flesh, the might

of muscles flexed
to my will, the loop’s
quick flash secure

around the boney
feet of calves
in the branding pen—

no two quite the same,
how I welcomed them
as a measure of a man.

 

First Branding

 

 

Branding calves in Earl McKee’s corrals has always been removed from the rest of the world, separate from the conflicts and politics that we are bombarded with daily. Never more true than yesterday among a few neighbors and friends at our first branding of the year, most of us going ‘old people slow’ as we got the job done.

 

CERTAIN

 

 

Certain places, certain
as the ridge’s blinding light
at dawn, embrace us—

draw the pain away,
the poison that the brain
has let fester behind our eyes.

They need not speak, yet
the breeze rhymes
in the limbs of trees,

where the business of birds
changes with the seasons, yet
will not change the ways

of the world. Certain places
find their peace in the mundane
details, the stamen’s sure

perfume pollinators share
upon the petals’ opening
their doors to seed. Certain.

 

GRANITE LANDMARKS

 

 

When I was new to these hills,
great rocks rose to find my way
along a native track—coyote,

deer and that of cattle—
dirt worn soft by pad and hoof.
I gave each a name

to place me on this ground
when I was lost, or turned
around on gray fog days.

Weather-sculpted, laced
with lichen color, some
take the shape of humans

that haven’t changed, frozen
in time before men came
to live among them—

mark the stories of the hunt
and gather of the untamed.
These rocks remember

without words, a warm
language recorded
for the species that survive us.