Not quite déjà vu, Saturday’s sun set under clear skies after another half-inch rain, illuminating the sycamores again, but with less intensity. This is the perspective I wanted for yesterday’s post, but by the time I got to this position, the light was gone. When you’ve got grass and rain, you’ve got time to think about other things.
The light changes quickly after breaks in the weather. We had just received a half-inch of rain by Tuesday evening as the sun was setting behind the ridge. Overcast in the canyon but clearing in the valley west of us, the sun found a thin slot between the ridge and clouds to spotlight the sycamores along the creek, our dancing girls.
We know the sound, feel it
pound our flesh, reverberate
in our skulls, draw sinew tight
to hold on—to the moment
fleeting, bucking, kicking loose
the last of common sense.
No ordinary ride in the park
upon watered lawns spaced
between pampered shade trees,
we recognize the scent
of rain on sudden gusts,
feel skin shrink, follicles lift
us up, and the sweet cud
swirling above bovine beds,
flat mats of grass awakening.
Not quite wild, we are captive
in a maze of weathered hills,
fractured rock and families
of oaks where shadows slip
and voices stalk—whisper one
more metaphor upon our lips.
Puffs of cumulous on blue,
naked sycamore ballet, backdrop
of granite rock on tender green—
January after a month of rain,
muddy froth upon the creek
greet me like an old friend.
We pick up where we left off
as if drought never happened,
each afloat in one another’s eyes
applauding our survival—and
the genius of persevering seed
clinging through the years of dust
without rain—our moment now
just to look, inhale the scent
of breath and flesh, alive again.
These silent spirits frolicking
for centuries along the creek
rooted, yet reaching for more light
that only naked can I see
each time they changed their minds—
with each petticoat pooled dry
and blown away from their feet.
Drawn to their wild dance
of indecision, each fickle fantasy
grown smooth with balanced grace,
I am moved to forget the price
of being human and must join them
upon the green beneath the gray
to greet the ghosts gone-on before me.
Posted in Photographs, Ranch Journal
Tagged dancing nymphs, ghosts, Grace, green and gray, indecision
Rain has been the recurring forecast with measureable amounts on over half of the last thirty days, pleasant and needed relief from four years of drought. Picking a day to brand is tricky business, usually requiring a day or two before to gather the cows and calves off steep, slick hillsides. Putting a crew of neighbors together to help often conflicts with their own branding schedules. Then the planning of a meal, perishables hanging in limbo to feed friends afterwards, keeps us tuned to the TV and several weather Internet sites for a composite report to insure we won’t be rained out before we go for it. But no one complains. Robbin jokes that when the call goes out, “We’re having a picnic, bring your horse.”
Yesterday’s approaching storm cloaked the canyon in soft ethereal gray, muted morning light where it narrows four miles above us at the Buzzard Roost Fire Control Road, corrals deep within its walls of almost-iridescent green, large ghostlike patches of naked Buckeyes on the north slopes, surrounded by skeletons of leafless Blue Oaks, some dead, some alive.
A perfect day for us to help Steve and Jody Fuller brand, I’m told that everything goes with green and gray.
Weekly Photo Challenge: “Alphabet”
I’m below the snowline
biodegradable as hell.
– Red Shuttleworth (“Cafe With Slot Machines”)
When the taxman finds us,
there’s always the argument
over appraisal of this and that
accomplishment, certain failures turned
skyward to face floating white cumulus
with hopes of a more productive afterlife.
The news is too much, poor excuse
for children’s stories peddling common sense.
No Aesop, not even the Brothers Grimm
can keep the future in bread crumbs—
no little red hens to do the dirty work,
no hands-on tools for grindstones.
When he comes, we may be out in the barn
with friends, dusty antiques with loose screws
he may overlook if the dogs don’t
give us away, so far from the house,
trying to freeze time by supposing
we might have made a difference.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2016
Tagged age, children, death, future, Red Shuttleworth, taxes
I escaped the farm
as a backcountry packer
of mules, to the rhythm
of hooves and draw chains—
found my way lost in awe
yet branded in my mind.
There was another world—
girls in town to think about
up and down the Sierra’s spine,
Wolfman Jack on the transistor,
boss and soul, rock and roll
for company by the fire.
I called to faraway faces
over falling starlit peaks,
the granite scree glittering
into Tamarack timberlines
as I lay down each night
to dream on solid ground.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2016, Ranch Journal
Tagged awe, mules, packer, Sierra's Spine, Wolfman Jack