Behind the barn and horses
grazing evening time, beyond
our chorus line of sycamores
locking hands gleefully,
young mothers pepper green,
return home to fresh feed
with branded calves—slope bare
for years without rain.
Breathing deeply, we inhale
all before our eyes—
herd and family without
the scattering sort of bulls,
they glean the sweetest first
before working
up the mountain gradually.
We want to freeze the feeling
in a photograph forever,
knowing we cannot.
It is our habit to watch the sunset with a glass of wine, replay the day and plan the next as the shadow of the ridge behind us crawls up the slope across the canyon until dark. Our conversation is almost always interrupted by someone, a coyote crossing in the pasture, crow mates preening one another, hawks and eagles, or our finger-pointing quiet pause last night as a covey of quail moved through the yard on their way to the lemon tree to roost. Nearly hidden in the darkness, it was serious business, an alert rear guard spaced behind the rest, then double-time to catch up—it’s organized, almost military. Then I’m off on a rant, “Don’t tell me that they can’t think.”
A few tree frogs have been utilizing the dogs’ water dish by day, protected by the metal hood over the plastic float that regulates the flow of water that Robbin has had to remove because the weight of three or four frogs opens the valve and overflows the dish on to the deck. We’re trying to talk, our conversation rudely interrupted by poorly punctuated, air-cracking croaks from the dish. Robbin gets up to inspect the source to see the frog’s vocal throat sac inflated. Then slips off on a humorously detailed rant about maleness.
Catching the inflated vocal sac in a photograph is tricky in low light, finding an f-stop to allow auto-focus between croaks when you can barely see the tree frog and hold the camera still takes lots of shots. Furthermore, the photographer must keep his distance or the subject goes quiet with stage fright.
And what else could we expect this close to the vernal equinox, the night before the full worm moon, buckeyes dressing leaves, redbuds about to bloom, finches assessing last year’s nests—it’s damn-near spring!
With temperatures rising into the 70s, the ground is beginning to dry out in places, still boggy in others. The creek is down to 100 csf despite last weekend’s 0.75” rain and we were able to get the rest of our Wagyu X calves across the creek to brand. With Brent and Sid to augment our aging crew, we got the job done yesterday.
Until now, it’s been too wet to see the rest of our cattle in the hills. Robbin and I need to get around to see how big the bull calves have gotten and then decide whether to gather and work them or not. Considering the shock and recovery time as steers with only 60 days left of our grass season, it may be better to wean them early as bull calves. The steers will bring more money/lb., but the bulls this late in the season will weigh more. After four years of drought, we never imagined the problems of too much rain.
We replay the day
of branding calves, glad
your horse has healed
beneath me strong—
the feel of the rope
remembered as our eyes
follow the eagle’s flight
low across the green
trolling for ground squirrels
busy with housekeeping,
absorbing the sun
after months of rain.
He stops mid-air
on his second pass,
falls back and plunges
into the grass, wings
shielding warmth within
his taloned grasp
as we talk and share
binoculars, checking on
life in this canyon—
of going nowhere
like the eagle
already home.
A beautiful day for a branding at Steve and Jody Fuller’s place on Dry Creek. Just up the road, we arrived while the crew was sorting cows from calves, hoping to keep the day’s work light for Robbin’s horse Bart who has been off a year to heal torn tendons—one of those freak accidents incurred, we believe, while he was playing in the pasture—the horse she lets me brand on. Lately, she has been testing him with some easy days successfully, and it was time try him back in the branding pen.
When I was younger, I craved to go to brandings as much for the bravado and camaraderie of this community as to rope calves. But in recent years, as my knees have gotten worse, about the only time I’m horseback is to help the neighbors brand, my gesture to repay them for helping us mark our calves every year. At times, it got to be work I endured.
For the past six months, however, I have been dreaming of horses and my knees don’t hurt as much when I ride as when I walk. To feel Bart’s strength under me as we led that first calf out was exhilarating, and to be able to free my mind of his physical soundness and concentrate on the feel of my rope became so much fun that I felt young again. Much of the credit I give to Robbin’s horse, he fits me well—yet knowing, too, that much of it just plays pleasantly in an old man’s mind.
Though the cattle appreciate going ‘old people slow’, it makes for a long day, especially when the calves have grown past the ideal time to brand them due to our ninety days of rain since Thanksgiving. As the ground begins to dry out, all our neighbors, whom we depend on for help, are busy trying to get their calves gathered and marked as well.
Fortunately we were able to enlist some youth to help get the calves on the ground, without which the day would have been much longer. Thank you Brett Moody, Tell Blanke and Nate. Special thanks to all the old timers, our friends and neighbors, who like us, are trying to hang on to this way of life.
Winter’s long-entangled dance
carefree of leaves for centuries
beckons partners of the flesh—
a mood rooted in this ground
of fortitude that rules the air
we breathe, the space between
the touch of branches. Slow
gather of cattle among them—
graceful rhythm for a branding.
This iPhone photo inexplicably popped-up on my computer this morning, reminding me of how much fun we had in Elko for the National Cowboy Poetry Gathering.
It’s been 6 days since any rain and the ground is drying out in places. We crossed the creek yesterday in the Kubota, 175 cfs, water in the floorboards. It’s time to go to work.
Posted in Photographs, Ranch Journal
Tagged National Cowboy Poetry Gathering, photography, weather
Tonight in California
I will read this in the rain
when I am full and fed-
up with the news—
and listen instead
to it storm upon the roof,
to the impromptu chorus
of croaking tree frogs,
to the ever-tumbling roar
of water gushing down
a muddy creek
if I’m smart.
It’s all runoff
saturated ground, yet
the uncontrollable sound
pleases the primeval place
I need for reassurance
beyond the posturing politics
of way-too many men.
Besides, when living
off grass, it’s sacrilege
to ever complain about a rain.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2017, Ranch Journal
Tagged photography, poetry, rain, water, weather
A mind like compost.
– Gary Snyder (“On Top”)
All the deep stuff
against the decomposing
granite, the rock beneath
a jillion moons of dirt,
of marginal soil—
our slanted earth
beneath the upright grass,
beneath the wildflowers,
beneath our feet
and hooves, horses,
cattle grazing—all
the deep stuff leaks
gently to the surface,
out from under
saturated ground
as if a cleansing,
as if a new recipe
in rivulets spreading
fundamental elements
into muddy creeks
downstream
to settle and collect
behind the structures
of dead architects.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2017, Ranch Journal
Tagged Gary Snyder, photography, poetry, rain, weather
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