Hanging with the does
that lick the last alfalfa
leaf behind the cows.
We are savoring the seasonal changes since the spectacular light show and rain on the 18th. The grass grows quickly in places with temperatures in the low 80s during the day and 50s at night. With softer ground and cooler weather, the cows have moved up the hill and to the ridges for fresh green grass, leaving their calves behind in the flats where we’ve been feeding hay since they were born.
Expecting dinner, there was quite a bit of confusion among the calves Sunday evening when the cows weren’t home on time, still high on the hill filling up before dark. Despite their instinctual training to stay where they last sucked, the calves went looking for their mothers in the only geography they knew. Robbin and I couldn’t contain our laughter as the chorus of plaintive bawls on either side of the house became overly urgent and dramatic—and just as humorous when the worried cows returned to finally find and chastise their offspring in strident tones.
Now a month or so old and growing, the calves have become more independent, running and bucking ahead of the plodding cows to the water trough at dawn, butting heads as they emulate their mothers, some of whom have begun to cycle. A sign of good health, it will be six weeks yet before we put the bulls out.
After four years of drought and a long hot summer, we welcome the changes, and as always this time of year, we wait for a little moisture to freshen-up the new grass on our bare west and south slopes as the clay dries out without the protection of old feed. I had to cut a load of dead Manzanita yesterday to celebrate all these welcome changes.
Posted in Photographs, Ranch Journal
Tagged Calves, change, cows, discipline, grass, rain, seasons
Posted in Haiku 2015, Photographs, Ranch Journal
Tagged age, Blacktail Buck, hunting, photography
1.
Don’t care,
go anywhere,
eat anything—leave little
evidence behind, but
barefoot tracks,
whole berries in black scat.
2.
Drought and fire,
slim pickin’s high,
bears lumber off the mountain,
hundreds in canyons
trying to make a living
on damn few acorns—
grubbing for bugs,
trashing trash cans
taking pets and an occasional calf.
Shaggy invaders
from the past
like science fiction.
3.
Oso,
Ursus arctos
own the moonlit mountain town
on Halloween,
rummage door to door,
wait on the porch for more
of anything to eat.
Trick or treat.
The birds sleep later now,
new guests in boughs without nests,
overwintering—coyotes and bobcats
hunt late in the morning chill
as we wait for sun
to break the ridge line,
eager and easy into the day
now that it’s rained
enough to start the grass,
settle four years’ dust—
cotyledons claim puddle mud,
arms open to new light.
Thanks to all who’ve helped identify the above. After perusing Google photos of Milkweed Bugs and Box Elders, I am still unable to find an exact match. The closest is the Small or Common Milkweed Bug. None of the Google photos show the three little dots down the center of the back on about half of these bugs. They were still at the rain gauge yesterday, 1.65″, plenty to start the grass.
Thank you Sue St. Martin (Facebook) for the following link, a perfect match:
Scantius aegyptius (Hemiptera: Pyrrhocoridae)
Invasive species from Southern California, we can color in Tulare County on their map.
Posted in Photographs
Tagged invasive species, Red Bug, Scantius aegyptius (Hemiptera: Pyrrhocoridae)
Behaving much like ladybugs exiting the ground around the post that holds our rain gauge at the corrals in Greasy last Saturday, I am assuming they are one of 5,000 species of Ladybird Beetles I wasn’t able to identify. No macro, using the point and shoot, click to enlarge the unusual patterns.
On Horehound, October 17, 2015
Feedback from Facebook identifies these as Box Elder bugs.
Posted in Photographs, Ranch Journal
Tagged Box Elder Bugs, entomology, ladybird beetles, Ladybugs
Metal roof
machine gun fire,
strobe lightening
and rolling thunder:
cracks rip black
with jagged light,
redbud silhouettes
dance with the dark
like the Fillmore,
like the Shrine—
endless bass
rocks the canyon,
canons bark with flame
and the war goes on and on.
Moist breath,
eager heart electrified
not to be contained
within old skin.
On stage:
the Doors
Janis Joplin wild with
Jimi Hendrix crescendos.
Last flashes break with dawn.
Inch-seventeen all in the ground—
she hasn’t lost her touch
with how to make it rain.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2015, Ranch Journal
Tagged Fillmore, lightening, rain, Shrine Hall, storm, thunder