It’s swirling now around the planet
bumping the coasts of continents
with the miracle of rain
sustaining earth and flesh
by the design of details
yet to be noticed and digitized
when Dad would watch neighbor’s windmill
for confirmation, three days out
of the southwest, or by his journaled cycles
see seventy percent success. Instead of signs,
we await the forecast and cuss
the weatherman when wrong.
for Marge Stiles (1919-2005)
I am amused with the new vocabulary of weathermen like “hydroclimate whiplash” during the atmospheric rivers a couple of years ago. I just read a new one, we’re on day 21 of our “tule stratus” as we head to Paregien’s to gather for Wednesday’s branding where hopefully we’ll be above the fog.
In the canyon
fog descending at dusk,
a gray blanket tucks us in
along the creek’s flaming sycamores
and silent trickle.
Wrapped in a cold cocoon,
insulated from the dreadful dramas
of an outside world,
we rest easily in the dark
with a taste of peace.
Cold and damp, we wake to add split oak
to coals banked in the woodstove
and wait for dawn’s dim light to see
how thick the fog that has consumed us
for weeks—and the cows and calves
we must gather before we brand,
before the rains leave dirt tracks
too slick to travel up the mountain—
bull calves to sell instead of steers for less.
An ocean of fog with islands of green,
a world below where commerce
and consumption carry-on conveniently,
where pundits and politicians spar
for the last word, and the weathermen
guess what Nature has left to teach us.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2025, poetry, Ranch Journal
Tagged branding, cattle, fog, nature, rain, weather, weathermen
How nice it was to see the sun above the fog topping out at 1,800 feet, temperature in the high 70s. Down on Dry Creek this a.m. it was 35 degrees.
We went up to the Paregien Ranch to make some repairs to the corrals and cut some dead trees out of our dirt roads and off the fences. The oaks that died during the 2012-2016 drought are really tipping over now. A joy to work in the sunshine before we brand calves next week.
No star or moon light,
nor sun upon my skin
for half-a-month
in a cave of fog,
partly insulated
from the shenanigans
of men at the trough
making laws
making sure
they can still deal
a gourmet meal
on the house:
our planet earth
giving up its wealth
instead of wisdom
for those that listen.
IGNITION
The hillside Blue Oaks beneath the fog
round as mushrooms upon December green,
darkened mounds that have survived
the seasons for centuries speaking
what I can’t translate, yet admire above
the sycamores that hem the creek
as they catch fire—flaming colors
on the thirteenth successive day of fog
warm heart and mind despite the gray.
****
MURMURATION
The starlings swarm like bees,
murmuration, hundreds synchronized
in flight by unspoken cues to flare
and light en masse to peck and graze
the green, before that cerebral notion rises
into the sky with a synchronized dance.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2025, Ranch Journal
Tagged Blue Oaks, fog, photography, poetry, starlings, sycamores, weather
It hasn’t come “on little cat’s feet” (Carl Sandburg), instead a blanket hanging for 10 days straight, a “radiation fog” as it’s now named, 44 degrees high yesterday, 38 degrees this a.m.
Of course, nothing compared to the snow storms elsewhere, but our grass needs sunshine. Other places in the San Joaquin Valley have experienced zero visibility, and often here the low lying fog spills over the ridge clear down to the creek. Perhaps tomorrow we’ll get some sun.
The day has come to plant the seed,
these youngsters knowing nothing
of one another, of propagation,
or the nine months before
she becomes a mother
nosing and nursing her first calf—
deep-rooted instinct drives them.
A dead-beat dad, he moves on
to practice what he’s learned,
to keep track of all the girls
he sorts by name and nature,
always ready to go to work
or play like people we know
from the Internet news,
or some a bit closer to home.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2025, Ranch Journal
Tagged breeding, bulls, heifers, photography, poetry
Granite outcrops clean,
lichen islands
ignite in flames,
November’s sunset
after a good long rain—
gray back to green,
both slopes and flats—
creek stalled
a mile upcanyon,
black dots
of cows and calves
grazing ridgetops.
Glistening tree bough
drops diamonds glistening,
raining rain.
There is more to heaven,
I suppose, a giving-up
of tarnished flesh
and character,
collected wisdom
won the hard way
for eternity—
this canyon green
I’d rather stay.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2025, Ranch Journal
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