Category Archives: Photographs

GOLDEN EAGLE BREAKFAST

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Left for the wind to clear
hard clay, soft remains
of a Red Tail Hawk.

 

 

DISCLAIMER

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I’m not a real photographer—
just trying to capture
real things differently

with a point & shoot
while working in weather
wearing good cameras down

to a bad investments—
small fortunes rendered
to useless cases.

No place for tripods
moving cattle, feeding hay—
no words to hold the wild

still. No time, dearly beloved,
when deep on the inside
of an unraveling ball of twine.

 

RED BARN 2010

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Roof in the trees raised
by January wind and rain—
we tarped the hay.

 

 

WPC(3) — “Angular”

 

MILK THISTLE & BEE

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Our nature to endure
all the evolving angles
of survival.

 

 

WPC(2) — “Angular”

HAWKEYE

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Good hooks and an eye
to hunt fish underwater
throughout the dry years.

 

 

HOME OF THE GROUND SQUIRREL

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Our straight lines, but new
obstacles and opportunities
for others.

 

 

WPC(1) — “Angular”

IN THE SYCAMORES

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All of the young bucks
know their place and wait
for business to pick up—

for the boss to be gone
with work of his own
calling him away, far

enough that he won’t know
what they’re up to.
They spar a little, rattle

thin horns, bide their time
in the thick of November—
like it’s always been.

 

NEAR THE RIVER (RIPARIAN)

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Within the wild grapes and willows,
a world become tame
without humans.

 

 

ESTRADA’S SPANISH KITCHEN

 

I have no reason to wake up hungry,
but how I miss Estrada’s dark-red
enchilada sauce on my tongue,
macaroni, stuffed rellenos, sizzling
tostada compuestas with chile
con caso, beans and rice—

or all you could eat prime rib
at the Red Barn, south of town—
thick slabs sliced from half a cow,
bloody juice pooled and running
right before your appetite—kids
well-fed at two bucks a head

for hard-working families
out on the town. Visalia was
the place to eat well before
it wanted to be like everywhere else—
before the fast-food similes
from the cities it escaped.

 

WEATHERMEN

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Time for a shower,
a quarter, a tenth.

I have the next rain
at my fingertips—
                    the hunt and peck,
                    scroll of percentiles
                    dialed-in
                    hour by hour
of the good stuff I want—
that naked clay needs
to stay alive.

Nothing’s changed.
We all hang on a forecast—
                    cuss the messenger
                    who gets paid
                    when he’s wrong
                    or claims he’s right.
It is our nature
where a man’s word
is everything.