Author Archives: John

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HAPPY HOLIDAYS

SYCAMORE GIRLS


They did not care when
Sir Francis Drake claimed them
for the Queen, or when the Spanish

held and lost them
to the Mexicans
and their vaqueros—

they did not care
when Bequettes brought
the first Devins in

to shade beneath their canopies
along the creek—
they did not care.

Long white limbs,
they will dance for anyone
once they lose their leaves.

* * * *

The Sycamore Alluvial Woodland on Dry Creek is the third largest in the world and the largest in the Sierra Nevada Ecoregion.

DECEMBER SYCAMORES


A little rain,
a little green,
a little cold

short of a December freeze

my girls dress
in fiery colors
along the creek trickling

before winter’s strip-tease:
long limbs reaching
from the clothes at their feet.

Some trees have drunk
more than they can hold,
dropping limbs on fences—

but nimble and sylphlike,
they have shown a millennium
a glimpse of sensual grace.



Feeding

 

It’s chilly in the morning (40s), foggy in the Valley after the 1.81” we received from the tail of the Bomb Cyclone earlier this week.  Normally, the ridge between Dry Creek and Antelope Valley keeps the fog out, allowing more sunshine for our fresh cotyledons. What a beautiful day, the sycamores are turning as winter knocks on the door.

 

We’ve been feeding lots of alfalfa trying to keep the cows with calves and replacement heifers in shape enough to cycle before breeding.  We’re in the process of getting the bulls out now.  With no forecast rains, we’ll begin branding soon.

 

CLICHÉ


Among the old timers
I tried my hand at similes
after a good slow rain

when it was warm and wet enough
to start the grass, they'd say
“thick as hair on a dog’s back.”



SLOW IN–SLOW OUT


1.

Honed peaks and ridges
cut the clear blue sky
and lagging cumulus rising

between storms,
as we await the tail
of a Bomb Cyclone

predicted for our metal roof
with coffee before daylight—
or so we pray.


2.

Slow in—slow out.
Gray clouds clinging
to the hillsides,

four hundredths all day—
58 high,
52 low after

an all-night soaker
with little runoff
to start the grass.


HYDROCLIMATE WHIPLASH

We trust the rain, 
the early stirring of colored leaves,
our synapses electrified

before it leaks from the gray—
storms absorbed, the darkening
of settled dust as the wet thatch

of old feed folds
to hold the damp explosion
of open-handed cotyledons—

renewed miracles of life,
iridescent greens become tall
heads heavy with seed

to feed ourselves and others,
the wild and tame, crazed and sane
denizens of this planet.

We trust in rain.
We pray for rain
and wait.



CALIFORNIA OR BUST

Exeter, California mural painted by Morgan McCall and Mitchell-Veyna in 1996



He ain't got no loan
Cant grow no corn
He ain't got no loan

- Levon Helm (“Poor Old Dirt Farmer”)

A cattlemen’s get-together,
a fund-raising dinner—awards
and not-so-silent auctions
at the end of summer
before the calves come,

to rub shoulders with the neighbors
who’ve gotten older
or by surprise disappeared
altogether

like the uneven ground shrinking
for grazing cattle
and our flat ground sinking
with too much pumping
on the same old cow.

The banks are nervous
with farm ground worth
half of what it was
without water
to plant and raise a crop
to feed us
and pay the growing costs
(plus taxes and interest)

and threaten to foreclose
on homesteads with row crops
or orchards in piles
that have become bare ground
to develop, for speculators
to make small fortunes
for corporate investors.

Mom and Pop
have moved to town,
following the kids
the land couldn’t support—

but it’ll be so much easier
for everyone to shop
for third world groceries
at the Wall Street outlets.


CLEAN SLATE

Hunter’s Supermoon – Photo: Robbin’s I-Phone


Inhaling darkness spiked with chilled silence
soothes the synapses, spares the soul
with deep breaths released to space

beyond this combative planet and its grumbling
eruptions, its mindless explosions
of patriotic hatred. Ingesting the cool blackness

purifies a moment, relief on an early morning
clean slate to begin with, to try again
to write something worth reading.

SEEING THINGS


The redbud's broad green leaves
float on long stems
from the stump I’ve left behind

half-dozen times instead
of digging it up
to chase insistent roots

with a shovel, unearthing
its bed of fat succulents
outside my window.

So determined,
it has even lifted a flower pot
to find the sunlight.

On light gusts it waves
in the corner of my eye
to interrupt my thoughts

as if a visitor arriving
with something important
to tell me.