Knee-deep in filaree,
fiddleneck,and foxtails
with wild oats coming
on a precipice
where there is no trail
to the bottom
of Lake Kaweah—
posing for a drone,
for a documentary
as a cowman, as a poet.
I’ve poured concrete,
plumbed galvanized pipe
and electrified a pump
this week, and still
have work to do.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2019
Beyond the snowline,
roofless remains of rock houses,
high desert sage, pastel willows
and old cottonwoods
that surround Olancha—
fifty miles due east of green,
five hours by car,
five days a foot,
no short cuts.
Not to be weaned after years
of grazing cattle between her breasts,
we know the warm shelter of her flesh
apart from unkind men and women
striving for inane advantage
and choose to stay long after death,
stirred and interred between the rocks
where the native midden rests,
where horses hang their heavy heads
awaiting work, where all the gods
have been welcome. The eagle
on the skyline knows our minds,
deciphers gestures, understands
what few humans he’ll ever know
as witness to our wishes.
What sweet perfection, this planet blessed
to feed itself, whose wildness beckons men
to tame her, to milk her flesh for comfort,
for the glory of brief accomplishments—
lost cultures and civilizations, our crumbling
emulations of rocky crags with razor teeth
scraping stormy skies as man’s connection
to heaven. We have been fruitful, hungry
for her bounties hobbled by ignorance,
arrogance and greed. Mother to us all,
she is a stranger to our children, a far cry
from the hard and generous woman
she once was—her distant whine
on the wind from town begs relief
and a certain change in direction.
Where wild remains
heavenly in spring,
where deer dance
and Golden Eagles nest
close to a generous sky.
Only God knows why.
for Earl McKee
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2019, Ranch Journal
Tagged photography, poetry, Sulphur Ridge, wildflowers
I don’t expect to see
in the same way now
and I’m not the wise
old man I wanted to be—
after all, this new ground
hasn’t changed much,
the rain still drains
down the same canyons
in my brain, a ruffled
landscape come alive
in my skull that I must
work around, it seems.
The rafters rain with dry debris of nests
under construction, as finches dance
with crimson breasts upon the railing
crooning springtime love songs.
Hillsides splashed with islands
of Golden Poppies burn together
engulfing green, white skiffs claim
the flats with gilded fiddleneck as
the tender and translucent leaves
of oaks test unsettled weather
gusting within all living flesh
flushed with a mix of urgency and awe.
Killdeer claim the gravel drive, guard
speckled eggs that look like granite
as the crow pair cruise the layered
limbs of trees for homes, their own
secreted away in canyon Blue Oaks
as burnished eagles sweep the grasses
at feeding time—a great and brutal cry
fills the eyes as this troubled earth
awakens with unrelenting passion.
The solace of ridges
I cannot reach
but with my eyes,
I have shared
with generations here
put to rest before me—
while the lower ground
churns with the business
of getting bigger,
milking the earth
for all she’s worth,
building fortunes and cities.
We are not prepared
to go hungry, thirst
without water to irrigate
a meal. We must learn
to look beyond ourselves
to see our children’s
future, work together
to shape a world
that’s not a living hell.
Back to basics with the loss of power that lasted until late this morning due to an isolated thunderstorm yesterday afternoon bringing nearly 3 inches in an hour or so. Robbin and I got the dominos and candles out.
Cattle people trying
to manage grass
in the West
dare not cuss the rain
or otherwise risk
pissing-off the gods
that might be related
to the ones who care
for the ill and dying.
Seed
Rain
Grass
Seed
all the basic elements
we need
to continue living.
Evening conversation dwells
on a thin cow, vaccine
protocol and the dog’s limp
without a hint of politics
beyond the barbed wire—
beyond this ground and grass.
We don’t want to know
what makes the news—
what makes the outside world
tick with greed and power.
Evening conversation dwells
on more important things.
drycrikjournal 