Category Archives: Poems 2013

                                        A long time ago, before the Wuk-chum’-nees came to Id’-ik,
                                        the Kaweah River, the old-time bird and animal people who
                                        lived at Sho-no’-yoo near Lemon Cove almost starved. There
                                        was no rain. The ground was dry and bare. Trah’-tah, the
                                        Oak tree had no acorns. There was no Kis’-tin seed, no Kaw’-
                                        wah seed, and no Chee’-tut clover. Tro’-khud, the Eagle;
                                        Wee’-hay-sit, the Mountain Lion, and all those people had
                                        nothing to eat.
                                                             – F.F. Latta (“The Great Famine”)

We have grown numb to the dry,
plodding circles, feeding hay,
weighing which girls go, who stays.

We, who think we have the best to offer
bird and animal people, grow calloused
to the color, to the dawn, to the day

after day of the earth struggling.
Grandfather oaks lay down, pull
their roots free to serve leaves

to cattle. Nothing is as it was,
no cycle or sign into the future,
no escape except that empty gaze

before ascension when the soul
prepares to leave the flesh,
collecting essentials, just in case.

The birds move in and out as they please,
but some stay, like you and I, to watch
the arrival of guests bringing something

to the party. Even the town pigeons fidgeting
on the barn roof beneath a skyful of hawks
can bring humor and drama to a dirt farm—

to bare ground fenced and cross-fenced.
These are repetitious, pastel days of browns
and grays washed one upon the other

preparing for winter rains that never come—
like all the Mallards and Pintails waiting
somewhere north for a storm to follow.

Meanwhile, we visit with the Phoebes
feasting on a new hatch of gnats. The earth
seems to slip as the quail roll in from the hill.

Roadrunners snag the last of the butterflies
while hummingbirds and honey bees
get down to their buzzing business

upon fading purple plumes of Mexican Sage.
Some leave early and some leave late—
we just don’t know who’s coming next.

We know how to live
day to day,
from if to if—

the first word
to begin each thread
we follow to connect

tomorrow, weighing
elements and trends
of hay, grass and rain.

We come to despise
the empty promises
of weathermen at night,

see thin cows in our sleep.
The light is low,
leaves on fire

as cotyledons hesitate
on naked hillsides.
No one knows

and only a newcomer
or a fool dare predict
weather in California.

A little rain and two damps days,
the heifers have left for the ridges,
for the first grass,
before the cotyledons spread their hands
above your father’s ashes—it’s glorious
before the light of dawn.

Outside my den, a falcon watches
from the snag, surveying hillsides,
listening to far calf’s bawl. Our world
moves to another beginning
we cannot stop—it’s glorious
before the light of dawn.

                            Too poor to pay,
                            Too rich to quit.
                                    – Velvet (“Gunsight Ridge”, 1957)

We tread water in a river of time,
run a ranch against the current,
raise cows and write poetry

in the gloaming—
know no better
way to stay alive.

We know they are more than dots
on a hillside that changes color
constantly, no matter how much

we wish it would stay green.
Sometimes we serve them
the best alfalfa hay we can buy,

read their habits and listen
for instructions. We even pray
to their gods for relief, for grass,

for rain. Given time, we learn
to think like they do, understand
what it takes to get along

with the weather, with politics
and the price of beef, but
most of all, with each other.

                              Back then, it was just men
                              doing what they had to do
                              and white faced cattle waiting
                                             – Neil Meli (“Pulling Pipe”)

You will never know how we were blessed
time and again as men—the haze, the dust
of progress on this shrinking planet clouds

clear view. Hands like hammers hard as nails,
we were heroes as white-faced cattle waited,
day after day, bellies deep in green. We slept

soundly dreaming of tomorrow’s victories
and if the gal down the road ever noticed
our existence. Always work and little time

to socialize, party lines and little privacy,
and we learned to grunt, lift the impossible up
together—and how to howl at a rising moon.

A still reflection in black night
on redwood two by sixes outside
the window at three could be
the top of a deep pond, but it’s not.

I listen, but only the tinkling
of tiny drops in the downspouts
of just-cleaned gutters, all-day Monday
worn on your hands as you sleep—

one last ritual to please the rain gods,
or throwback penance if we’ve sinned
by feeding cattle on the Sabbath.
Chimney swept, woodstove clean,
waiting for Manzanita stacked
beneath the eave—all checked off
in case it rains. We’ve done all we can,
been good Boy Scouts, heard our fathers’
voices a thousand times in this drought—
they would be proud. It’s nothing, really—
but it’s wet.

Three months straight, hay
every third day to first-calf heifers
listening, leaning at the barbed wire

hoof to ear, for combustion—dawn’s
diesel fire and rumble starts
cold night dreams come true—

their chorus builds into new crescendos
as they fidget on the edge of stampede
to surround the house on the Sabbath.

We are not the center of their dusty world.
The truck, like clouds bring rain, brings
sweet alfalfa hay. We taste the air,

see under the oak trees across the canyon,
search for the first sign of dark passing ships
and remember how it was to watch it rain.

You won’t believe
how we got here
after the animals and bird people
met for the last time
to turn us loose on this ground.

You won’t believe
we did without electric
light at the end of the tunnel—
our cache of acorns
to get us through the winter.

You won’t believe
that we survived.
You won’t believe
we are the dust you breathe
in these dry times.