Category Archives: Photographs

First Wagyu Branding

 

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Though the cattle appreciate going ‘old people slow’, it makes for a long day, especially when the calves have grown past the ideal time to brand them due to our ninety days of rain since Thanksgiving. As the ground begins to dry out, all our neighbors, whom we depend on for help, are busy trying to get their calves gathered and marked as well.

 

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Fortunately we were able to enlist some youth to help get the calves on the ground, without which the day would have been much longer. Thank you Brett Moody, Tell Blanke and Nate. Special thanks to all the old timers, our friends and neighbors, who like us, are trying to hang on to this way of life.

 

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IN SYCAMORELAND

 

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Winter’s long-entangled dance
carefree of leaves for centuries
beckons partners of the flesh—

a mood rooted in this ground
of fortitude that rules the air
we breathe, the space between

the touch of branches. Slow
gather of cattle among them—
graceful rhythm for a branding.

 

UNDISTURBED

 

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Where the eye is drawn
the gods live and cattle graze
mostly undisturbed.

 

Gail & Amy

 

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This iPhone photo inexplicably popped-up on my computer this morning, reminding me of how much fun we had in Elko for the National Cowboy Poetry Gathering.

It’s been 6 days since any rain and the ground is drying out in places. We crossed the creek yesterday in the Kubota, 175 cfs, water in the floorboards. It’s time to go to work.

 

MIRACLES AND MISTAKES

 

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Fuzzy hillsides float
upside down since the drought,
since the dry and dusty waterholes

overflowed with more rain
than we dared pray—as if
the machinery of the gods

locked long before
the celestial mechanics came
to break the cogs loose.

It is a wonder how
these miracles and mistakes
seem upon reflection.

 

SAVED FOR SUNNY DAYS

 

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So much rain the Sabbaths seem
like any other day, banked dreams
and basic routines squeezed

between storms, while the hard
work waits beyond in time:
opaque weeks ahead crossing

an angry creek when the melt
of soggy hills sets hard enough
to ride, to gather for brandings

saved for sunny days. Until then,
we believe what we see—watch
the morning sky and pray.

 

“Storyline” by Andy Wilkinson

 

On February 2, 2017, Andy Wilkinson delivered the Keynote Address to the 33rd National Cowboy Poetry Gathering in Elko, Nevada. Addressing this year’s theme of ‘story’, his poetic treatise on the creative process received a standing ovation and is now available from Dry Crik Press in book form.

 

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ISBN-10: 1883081106
ISBN-13: 978-1883081102
50 pages

 

INTRODUCTION

For a long time now, I have been studying and thinking on story and narration, mostly in terms of how they are fundamental to creative process. So when asked to deliver the keynote address for the 2017 National Cowboy Poetry Gathering – with its theme being storytelling – I jumped at the chance. I chose poetry and song over prose, both to honor the substance and history of the Gatherings and to force myself to a finer, deeper understanding of the topic and task.

Then, all the while I was writing, an already-divided nation split even wider, adding not only a new perspective to the work, but also an urgency. For reconciliation, I now believe, is itself a creative process, one without beginning or end, inseparable from story and narration. And that, in turn, gives me hope for a kinder world.

My assignment from the Western Folklife Center also required that I write an essay for the event program, which I used as an opportunity to flesh-out the least-accessible part of the poem, that being the intimate relationship with the sciences and story and narration.

I mean for both essay and poem to be read, and sung, aloud. The line breaks, spacings, and archaic punctuation are there to facilitate oral performance, not for style and certainly not to please the eye. You are welcome to supply your own melody.

Andy Wilkinson

Keynote 

 

(to order click the sidebar)

 

MY SYCAMORE GIRLS

 

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Each appendage strives for grace
angling its long reach for the light
dressed within summer green

canopies that shade the pools
along the creek. But some trees
drink too much, consume

more weight than limbs can hold
before snapping like rifle shots
that echo in the canyon.

Gray chorus line of winter nymphs
locking hands, dancing naked
at a distance, up close show

the scars of younger appetites
for growth, blueprints for bigness
that challenged gravity—yet

decomposed broken bones
leave open holes for nests
to incubate a clan of Wood Ducks.

 

BLUE OAK

 

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Always looking down
on the road, on the creek,
all my life measuring

the downstream flow
of morning traffic—counting
cattle, birds and coyotes—

it draws the eye to vast
diversities of purpose
beyond the moment,

twigs and branches
etched into the sky
begging a longer look.

 

WELCOMING

 

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When I was young and lived alone
she kept me company, silhouette
stretched along the ridge waiting

for the moon upon her breast,
long hair falling into the creek.
Some nights she stirred in her sleep.

Alive, these hills still welcome me,
draw flesh and eyes away
from the bottomlands of man.