Before my time
an empty bottle cast
where there was no road,
pink with a lifetime
of blistering sunlight
and I wonder who
a horseback threw it
now in the short grass—
legends in these hills,
weathered men,
drinkers all
coping with the times—
with bankers and buyers
betting on the market
and little chance of rain.
Or what couple when
lay naked then
in wildflower sunshine.
Not much has changed
except for the price
of a cheap bottle of wine.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2021, Ranch Journal
Tagged cattle business, lovers, weather, wine
Gray silver rain,
burnished coins
upon the green—
first leaves of filaree
like faces waiting,
hands open expectantly.
The ground sighs
just in time and we,
with wood stacked,
breathe freely now
as cows down from ridgetops
collect babies waiting
for breakfast
and old enough to listen
for their mother’s voice.
She slipped easily away
under clouds like these.
I hear phrases now—
her knowing
and all her demons
haunt me delightfully,
words that fit
and suddenly
become my own.
She would be pleased for us,
gray silver rain
upon the green.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2021, Ranch Journal
Beneath clouds
the forecast rain peters out
to a light mist, heavy dew, a sip
to hold greening hills a week—
like always, I’m disappointed
wanting more
security for cows.
Today, we’ll cut skeletons
of brittle manzanita
into woodstove lengths
to bring Blue Oak coals
to flame each morning.
We’ll take the dog,
put out salt,
check cows and calves—
stack the brush
load the Kubota
and let her sit between us
all the way home.
Through the years
we have worn cow trails of our own.
Like always, we’ll see something
we’ve never seen before.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2021, Ranch Journal
Tagged cow trails, cycles, dog, habits, Manzanita, rain, woodstove
Ever respectful
in the presence of preying,
or praying out loud.
Posted in Haiku 2021, Photographs, Poems 2021, Ranch Journal
Tagged pray, praying mantis, prey
Around here all the gods live in trees.
– Jim Harrison (“The Whisper”)
It’s been tough on the woodpeckers: dry year,
no acorns in the oaks, yet
they still flap and squabble over bugs in the bark.
I can’t see the owls in the dark of dawn
as I wait for the black to disappear, yet
their mournful presence is good company.
Robbin likes the flock of little bushtits
flitting tree to tree, or washing-up at six o’clock
when the timer sprays the Mexican Sage.
Above it all, they’re smarter than the rest of us
to fly where they want—or most needed.
But around here we irrigate the trees.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2021, Ranch Journal
Tagged gods, Jim Harrison. birds, trees, water
2.
Drought and dust,
pandemic and the masks
we need to breathe and feed—
day’s end cloaked in smoke
and gin—how tough are we
and every living thing
looking to escape
to a Li Po poem
and Chinese tapestry?
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2021, Ranch Journal
Tagged Drought, dust, KNP Complex fire, pandemic, smoke, Windy Fire
1.
I can taste the pines and cedars when I awake
to fuzzy black to search for stars
beyond, hoping for a clear day.
Choking smoke with my coffee,
with feeding cows and first-calf heifers
calving, faded coyotes close.
Ash falls like snow, skiffs light and dirty.
In this haze, it’s easy to get lost at home.
I track my steps to where I’m from.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2021, Ranch Journal
Tagged ash, KNP Complex fire, smoke, Windy Fire
I will not say where,
but offer a photograph
of three before rut
rattling branches
of brittle Manzanita
to harden their horns.
Posted in Haiku 2021, Photographs, Poems 2021, Ranch Journal
After the lightning
igniting fires, after the storm,
a new day dawns
with hope
and a hint of change
from the blistering summer heat
with the equinox knocking
at the door, I think
of all the jobs earmarked
for years—our growing list
of work we’ve saved
for rainy days.
The prognosticators
are unusually quiet,
don’t dare say
when to expect a rain.
I keep adding to a list
that will outlive me.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2021, Ranch Journal
Tagged clouds, dawn, fires, lightning, rainy day jobs
Out of the blue
the space between us
rings like a bell
as I become
a curious diversion
for two young bucks
oblivious to the perils
of the outside world
swirling around us all.
How I envy such innocence,
rejuvenated for a moment—
yet I lay down to look
through dry stems of feed,
my horns lost in branches,
almost unseen.
(click)
drycrikjournal 