Beneath dark skies
cold up-canyon gusts
strip leaves in showers
of yellows, reds and browns
at provocative angles,
stirring the wild within
to escape dry flesh—
become wet winds
between each limb
and naked twig
to greet the rain’s
drum upon the roof
until we are drunk with it—
blessed and blurry-eyed
to grin with grass.
Last Sunday, Robbin and I interrupted a Mallard hen and drake feeding on one of our stockwater ponds completely covered with duckweed. On her way out of the pond, the hen seems to be looking for direction from the drake, whether to stay or fly. No bibs in the wild.
Some interesting facts about Duckweed.
Posted in Photographs, Ranch Journal
We become the moon
when tides of blood flood the mind
to dance in the rain.
Weekly Photo Challenge: “Victory”
Breaking early without the lingering
after-rain clouds camped upon ridges
of damp clay and granite turned green,
fractured blinding light claims November
flesh glistening from branch to twig,
dripping jewels, millions of diamonds
sparkling across the flats and we are rich
and shivering, warming deadened scars
around coffee cups to share the moment.
The old cows know
grazing and cud,
how to a hold a thought
in the shade, how to
let it linger and settle
beneath certain trees,
earth stirred into beds
of moldy leaves.
The scent left
floats to revisit
when grazing’s done.
No secret place,
no special remedy
but time—time
among the grasses.
This is the rock
you claimed last winter
beside the dusty road I traveled
with bales of hay—
your hole, your home
though I may own it
and all the ground around
the living wage you make
of bugs, beetles and mice.
This is your rock.
Four years of drought have reduced the quail population on the ranch by at least half, but the covey around the house has fared much better than most. There’s ample cover here from bobcats and Cooper’s Hawks, and they don’t seem concerned with our strain of half-feral cats. But it’s been the regular irrigation of the garden that holds them here most summers.
The Valley Oak that we planted years ago and a resident Blue Oak have also benefited from the regular irrigation, both with good crops of acorns, most of which have fallen to the ground now. Whether crushed underfoot or decayed and rotting, they attract the quail, much to the displeasure of the woodpeckers who dive and try to drive them away from the Valley Oak, their tree of choice.
For the past month or so, the morning routine of the covey is to leave the Palo Verde tree where they spent the night, to go through the garden and stop beneath the Blue Oak for a snack, then parade across the yard to the Valley Oak, their tree of choice, for their main course. They seem to be coming to breakfast earlier, or perhaps the woodpeckers are sleeping in, but they haven’t been harassed lately as our temperatures drop to around 40°.
A little cold now for coffee outside, I finally went for the camera yesterday, having chastised myself for weeks for too many missed opportunities. Overcast after a light rain overnight, photographing quail and maintaining any depth of field was a challenge. Constantly moving and pecking, manual focus was out of the question and auto focus limited me to a single bird or two. My philosophy is to shoot lots of photos, especially with a digital camera, to sort out later. The photo above has survived some severe cropping yet maintained its unique feeling thanks to a good lens.
Trivia: Quail were among the messengers in native Yokuts folklore.
Posted in Photographs, Ranch Journal
Tagged acrons, Drought, messengers, oaks, quail, water, woodpeckers
A crisp and beautiful Sunday ahead of a storm, Robbin and I checked the cows and calves in Greasy, as well as the condition of our grass and water after the 1.5” of rain last week. We hauled a Kubota-load of extra hay up the hill for the cows in Section 17, most all with early calves.
Not all came in to hay: 6 cows choosing to stay atop the ridge, telling us what we came to find out. A few cows with larger calves show normal stress, but it’s a great start to a new season.
Though numbers are down substantially, cows were scattered everywhere we went, our stockwater ponds all holding some water now. With over 4 inches of rain to date, almost half of the rainfall we got during the whole of the 2013-14 season, and over a third of last season by the first week in November, we’re in disbelief, happy and relived.
No sense.
Nonsense.
Sometimes most clearly
through the eyes
of the bewildered
we see ourselves
spawned upon this earth
not as peacemakers
nor avenging angels,
but fallible and human
driven to plod on.
How do we find our grace
like salmon,
like rattlesnakes
born elsewhere?
How do we know the way
it makes us,
shapes us
into words,
into song?
for Merilee
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2015
Tagged expression, eyes, Grace, Home, life, photography, poetry, song
Busy as a bee
with the basics, it’s normal
to get some on you.
Weekly Photo Challenge: “Ornate”
drycrikjournal 