I’ve got no complaints,
but with all the details
the gods must attend to,
it’s not surprising that
some get overlooked.
Too good to be true,
the gods may be lazing
in a Max Parrish painting,
our fate more accident
than meant, but
still good to think
they’re paying attention.
In the fenced and ungrazed barn lot
where water rests before it rises
when it rains to find the culvert,
a thatch of summer flowers tall
all face the dawn—a photograph
to match with Calflora—
I’ve learned the names
of most wild and local flowers
that have survived our occupation.
Fifth generation in the same place,
I don’t care that these are non-native,
these immigrants established
year after year, flashing color
‘midst the bland and blond dry grasses
as they chase the sun down.
On the edge of irrigated green
grazing toward morning shade,
she’s on vacation, calf gone
as another stirs in her belly
to fulfill the appetites of a reckless
race she’ll never know.
Behind the barbed wire, safe
beyond the thistles, she’s content
to gossip days with girlfriends,
to contemplate a moment
for undisturbed hours—perfecting
poetry within her heavy skull.
Bullfrog pollywogs
leap to gasp warm July air
prior to croaking.
On the other side,
senses tuned
to the endless spectacle,
I have not time to waste
on unresolved plotless dramas,
soap opera sideshows.
Disbelief and bad acting
have held me paralyzed
at the gate—it’s time
to turn away
and let my mind graze
on its own.
for Ted Waddell
Another ant
in the anthill,
another bee
in the beehive,
another cog
on the treadmill—
I was bred to like work,
crave approval, but
make do with feeling good
about a job done better
than the last time—
an inclination to improve
the world around me
if I don’t stray
too far from home.
Like jewels glinting in summer weeds
as the creek retreats, Scarlet
Monkeyflowers, like faceted rubies
scattered among the cockleburs
within the rising green, flash
day’s first light before their tongues
unfold—unroll to sing to whirring
hummingbirds to pollinate their seed—
fine powder stirred with their foreheads.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2017
Tagged photography, poetry, Scarlet Monkeyflower, wildflowers
Pink bouquets
along the creek
ignore the heat.
Always on the edge of it,
the Valley fades into flat farms
and busy towns we have forgotten
beyond our circle of foothill cows.
Visalia lies somewhere in the haze.
Up and down the state
commerce churns cars between
RVs and trucks on US 99
we can’t see—yet tension turns
a wheel away as I leave
my window framed
in drought-killed trees,
yet still standing to screen
my wobbly presence
near the edge of it—I retreat
to more solid ground.
The days of busting brush
but polished stories, faded glories
washed by time upon this ground—
one-time mothers, the girls
remember, find their place
at feeders in the corral
where they were weaned,
to catch a ride uphill
to make homes for fall calves.
We have spoiled them, trained
for yet another moment
to work together. Too hot
to touch, the days blaze
soon after the shade of night
retreats in streaks of heat.
Robbin’s iPhone photo after following the girls into the corral. It’s been a warm week with temperatures over 110 degrees as we’ve weaned, processed and shipped our last load of bull calves to town. Polite and cooperative, these second-calf heifers hauled easily to Greasy while it was still cool. A smooth day—done before ten.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2017, Ranch Journal
Tagged cattle, photography, poetry, weather
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