In the early stillness
when sky is white
above the ridgeline,
hollow coos
of Roadrunners
spill off dark hillsides,
a sprinkle of sounds
almost like a song
for themselves—
or for all of us
who have endured
these years of drought
to rise early yet
to carry on
upon this earth.
Blessed are the birds—
may their gods
be ours.
Posted in Haiku 2015, Photographs
Tagged bumble bee, hubiscus, pollen, weekly-photo-challenge
Checking water, hillside springs
plumbed to troughs, a coyote pup,
on the lope and looking back
as if heading home, is common.
Beyond the den, this is his home,
this is his water—we are
unknown intruders, enigmas
making rounds in these hills,
following trails to waterholes
where wild waits
and congregates
as it shrinks into August.
With our eye, we measure
flow at the end of rusty pipe—
with our lungs, blow water
backwards to the spring box
to clear debris and sediment,
seldom clean. Yesterday,
I got to be giant
with two tree frogs dancing
on my tongue.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2015, Ranch Journal
Tagged coyote, Ragle Spring, tree frogs, water, wildlife
Posted in Haiku 2015, Photographs, Ranch Journal
Tagged Black-White Face, heterosis, hybrid vigor, weekly-photo-challenge
Posted in Haiku 2015, Photographs, Poems 2015, Ranch Journal
Tagged Drought, fences, grass, grazing, weekly-photo-challenge
None of the girls seemed opposed to having a little party yesterday now that our cattle work was done. Allie Fry, who is heading off to Fresno State next week, wanted to learn to rope and Terri Blanke, who coaches the youngsters before the Three Rivers Lions Club Team Roping, is helping her with the basics that evolved into a competition that included Robbin and I. An athletic quick study, Allie surprised us all.
We smoked pork ribs all afternoon, put eggplant and peppers on the barbecue, then put wild blackberries that Allie and I picked after feeding and irrigating in the morning on vanilla ice cream for dessert.
Thank you girls, we got the work done.
Posted in Photographs, Ranch Journal
Before and after the weather report
we get news from far away places:
tragedies and terrible things
that want to linger in our minds
asking questions—but we don’t like
the answers that must be true
about the nature of humans opposed
to peace, that are driven to leave
horrible impressions behind.
We watch the cows come into water
in a well-spaced line, taking turns
at the trough, then count quail babies
herded on the lawn to escape the cat.
Within a wrinkle among so many others
on the durable hide of this planet,
we inhabit a canyon shaped
by the allocation of water
apart from the world outside.
Perhaps this Glossy Ibis arrived with the monsoonal flow out of the Caribbean last week, as they are common to the East Coast. Often referred to as Black Curlews, they are shaped differently than our plumper and partridge-like Long Billed Curlews and behave more like Great Egrets and Blue Herons as shallow wading birds, though smaller than both. Try as I might to record this sighting with ebird, I failed. What distribution maps I found indicate no sightings in Central California. Amazing what you see when irrigating!
(Spooked a bullfrog!)
My brother, the old farmer, says
that it’s about over, that out
in the Valley where I seldom stray,
brand new drilling rigs rise
every two miles above the orchards,
out of corn fields reaching past
underground rivers that have lost
their way—like locusts, like aliens
descended to pound and perforate
the earth with steel, pneumatic
proboscises, they shine
through sun and starlight.
In the garden, the damp earth
moves, as if alive, with tree frogs
and toads traveling the shade
from flower leaf to vegetable
like a plague, like a sign
at the end of farming
or this drought, or for El Niño rains?
All the wishing at the wellhead
doesn’t matter to a tree frog.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2015, Ranch Journal
Tagged El Niño, old farmers, signs, tree frogs, water wells, well drilling rigs
