My folks have been grinning for eighty years
as they exit the church arm and arm
without a clue to the future after the war
where he commanded a battalion
of teen-age southern boys
to become bait for the Bulge
without their knowing.
My father farmed for his father,
raised oranges, grapes, and cattle,
and she three kids: boy scouts,
dance classes, trumpet lessons—
more than she really wanted.
And there they are
as I exit from the shower
still grinning without a clue.
Posted in Photographs
Rising early,
the bright eye diffused
that blinds from the ridge
near the Solstice—
shadows from oak trees
shrink up the slopes
of baked clay and granite
that radiate all night
until first light.
The early birds are busy
feeding young
until too hot to fly.
Posted in Photographs
Wet and warm enough for flies
with the gift of Christmas rains
after a month of fog, slow survivors
cling to the screen door, follow us
inside to die by folded magazine
or the Western Livestock Journal,
perfect tinder saved to start a flame—
perfect weather to lure the green
to rise with black dots of cattle
grazing ridgetops with our eyes.
Inhaling damp, we breathe relief
and sigh how long we wait like flies.
Posted in Photographs
Hot iron on hide,
singe and smoke
I’ll always recognize.
We’ve named mountains,
rivers, canyons and creeks
after the first cowmen here
or a faraway feeling
like Farewell Gap
or Hole in the Ground
that lasts longer
than the grip of commerce
and jumbled signage
where the flats
are cut with streets
and impatient traffic.
It’s human nature
to leave your mark
to not get lost.
Poetry is another kind of branding. -Gary Soto
Posted in Photographs
I count the barks in the dark
before sunrise, dog on the job
as I try to cypher who intrudes
our tranquility—so much like
tragic news in the daylight
hunting humanity and me
after the primal bellowing
of bulls echo the canyon,
or the solo owl in a nearby oak
searching for an answer,
as joyous choruses of coyotes
find one another
before the day’s work
of stalking rodents
or claiming carrion.
Earthbound, they can’t fathom
the news I hear and read,
feel it clutch mind and heart,
the wounded part of me
cut both ways
for being human.
Posted in Photographs
Rain nine days away, they say—those prognosticators.
95 degrees third week in March after a month of dry
as the grass on south and west sloping faces
goes to seed next year’s grazing—or so we hope.
Lifetime wagers on the weather,
and gambles on the market for hay and cattle,
we pray that politicians don’t impede our subsistence
to garner more attention—control and votes like always.
We are the pawns in this equation, farmers, shepherds
of this world, tracing dawns along the ridgelines
chasing seasons for generations—filling empty plates
with much more than what most people see.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2026, poetry, Ranch Journal
Tagged cattle, farmers, government, markets, photography, poetry, shepherds, weather
My mother’s favorite,
first of the season,
a family in the same bed
across the creek all these years,
she mentioned fondly
when I was a boy.
Photo: March 24, 2009
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2026, poetry, Ranch Journal
Tagged Baby Blue Eyes, bed, family, wilflowers
The sycamores are pushing leaves
against green hillsides along the creek—
thin clouds smeared upon blue seas
above fresh snow upstream, and we
old timers wait for the wildflowers
we remember, their names and faces
begging for a moment in the sun
far from the news in Washington.
Thank God it finally rained after months
of fog, the only moisture to keep the grass
alive, and only now does it start to grow
after the frost and freezing mornings
that make strong feed. You can see it piled
behind the heifers, instead of puddles,
licking themselves as if their coats
were combed with gobs of Brylcreem.
It’s the little things that tell the story
I’m looking for—Baby Blue Eyes,
Mariposa Lillies and Pretty Faces
to greet me spring mornings.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2026, poetry, Ranch Journal
Tagged heifers, photography, poetry, strong feed, wildflowers
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We branded another bunch on the calf table yesterday, labeled by longtime neighbor Earl McKee as the “Iron Roper”.
The transition from heading and heeling our calves has been smooth, giving us the advantage of branding on short notice as opposed to inviting ropers days in advance during a busy branding season. Though not as much fun, we can get the job done quicker and with less people. We also think it’s easier on the calves not being drug across the corral waiting to be heeled, and keeping the bull calves off the ground while being castrated is also more sanitary.
In any event, it’s also easier on us and our close neighbors, but each to his own, we’ve been there.
Posted in Photographs, Ranch Journal
Tagged branding, calf table, heading and heeling, old people
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