Category Archives: Ranch Journal

PERIGEE-SYZYGY 2016

 

20161213-a40a2646

 

Busy days before a pineapple express arrives
with a forecast two-inch rain before Christmas,
we wait with a glass of wine for meat on the fire,

for the Wagyu bulls trucked from Idaho in the
super moonlight over Donner, down Highway 99
to be unloaded, we watch the ridgeline, see a coyote

laughing in precursor clouds, hear him giggle
across the creek and we are lifted with our eyes
to all the celestial possibilities we don’t want

explained. It is enough to be found and noticed
as the moon peeks through the oak trees, to be
together like children howling with what they see.

 

TWO COWS

 

20160411-a40a0647

 

                    The clouds you ride are tissue-paper thin.
                         – Red Shuttleworth (“If You Had a Tail Fins Caddy”)

High on the mountain, two isolated cows surprised
graze thick fog without wet bags, act guilty found
in one another’s company before their inevitable trip

to town when we gather, the price of truancy
they seem to know or hear through my eyes
and the mist between us, or pure imagination

that blooms personified from my disappointment.
A little too content to be on vacation from maternity
and needy nurseries, the mother in me understands.

Up here, the footing is treacherous, each tentative step
measured against all the break-through, downhill
possibilities—up here the poems hang in oak trees.

 

FOR GOOD

 

20161211-a40a2594

 

Warm green December, grass ahead
of fewer cattle, young bulls work
at making friends in a perfect world
of tight fences and swinging gates
everyone respects for a little while.

On the uneasy edge of drought,
we will imitate fat calves lazing,
content to watch the show unfold
into the ordinary—nothing remarkable,
but with any luck a change for good.

 

FORTUNE TELLERS

 

20161211-a40a2578

 

No wet redwood reflection, I look past black morning,
scan the radar for a chance the last forecast stalled
before it got away to who-cares-where into the future
on the other side of the Sierras, then search for stars beyond
the gray for an out-of-habit game plan between rains:
soft warm earth too wet to work too far from home.

Forty years ago I slowed, took the Fowler exit off
Highway 99 for Madam Sophia’s neon sign of things
to come my way from the landscape of my palm:
low range of callouses spilling into the deep canyon
of my heart—she read both hands and lit a candle,
saw lots of water in my future and I was glad.

Dawn is gray above the green and last year’s bleached
dry feed, chorus line of sycamores undress white limbs,
show flesh between their rosy leaves to tease a good
hard rain to bring the creek to sweep its cobbled bed
of four-years’ deadfall in a rush to wipe out water gaps:
fixing fences into a future that’s not quite guaranteed.

 

 

topsign1

 

XMAS LETTER, 2016

 

20161208-a40a2549

 

Dear Paul, I write in fear for damn-near
all the gods, the large and small, the holy
and profane deities that will evacuate this
brave new world, flee under fire: open
season, no bag limit for their wild diversity.
We must hone keen eyes and listen closer,
old ears to the ground and its grumbling,
save space between the lines to nourish
and receive epiphanies and not lose faith
in the hapless hands and hearts of humanity.

The rain gods have returned on time to keep
the green alive in this canyon, hope beyond
the numbers and the market to carry on
the old ways, light fires for chunks of meat
to celebrate their visitations with friends
and family, nod and lift a glass to common
senses. The large and small will gather
in our dancing shadows, dodging smoke
upon each arriving breath from up or down
canyon—open space for them all around us.

 

PEGASUS

 

20161127-a40a2439-2

 

Sometimes we ride high enough
to see the backs of eagles, bronze
wings tracing steep hillside oats

a glide. Even horses pause
to take notice. You can feel envy
rise beneath you, becoming one

another for a moment—prolonged
instants we crave, yet cannot hold
with minds a grip. But letting go

we float the thermals to Olympus
to bring back lightning, thunder—
with luck a poem and some rain.

 

HOME AFTER RAIN

 

20161127-a40a2497

 

The cleaning lady
came to sweep the dust away
finally with rain.

 

FIRST WINTER STORM, 2016

 

20161127-a40a2449

 

Wind bangs against the mountains,
cold on warm rips and tears
cracks in air as crooked fingers
touch the ground with ‘lectric
yellow light to spark a roar
upon the metal roof in panting
pulses beneath soft gray
as if the gods were making love
in a bass drum, small canyon room
upstairs spawning muddy rivulets
towards a dry creek bed between
wet sycamores undressing
long white limbs suggestively
spilling November tans and browns
upon the green to stand naked
before an eager flow gathering
rafts of clothes upstream—

or as angry as the 60s
marching to make love
instead of war, or vice versa—

or with the best intentions
for all we’ve done today,
come to wash the dirty laundry,
our tracks and waste away.

 

 

1.81″ @ 7:30 a.m.

BLACK SKIES

 

20141211-img_1667

 

Dark morning without moon or stars
before the first winter storm, the day before
Black Friday rains deals and discounts

for Christmas, for our economy and I am
ever thankful that the bulls are out early
courting cows, meeting kids and family

before dirt roads get too slick to travel—
ever thankful for the drought that felled
two big Live Oaks on the gate and fence

we corded-up and stacked beneath the eave
before the girls drove posts and spliced
the barbed wire on a mat of green

to leave the mess looking like a park—ever
thankful for them, for you and this ground
we’re invested in together, for good horses

willing to get the cow work done—
black skies without moon or stars,
you and I alone before the storm.

 

The Nature of Bulls and the Weather

 

20161027-a40a2230

 

A light rain arrived before daylight and continued through yesterday morning, 0.12”, not much, but enough to brighten-up the grass while the girls fed and I fixed fence around the bull pen, trapping the last of the bulls at large for the past week in the riparian along Dry Creek—beyond which our replacement heifers selected for Wagyu bulls are only a narrow pasture away—all the usual testosterone tension and shenanigans that’s hard on fences as the calendars in their bullheads suggest re-establishing the pecking order before it’s time to go to work on December 1st. We will acquiesce, as we did last year, choosing to put them to work a little early rather than fix fence until our target date.

A decade or so ago at the Visalia Livestock Market ‘Off the Grass Sale’, I was admiring some Angus eight-weight steer calves in the ring that belonged to Art Tarbell, perhaps the best calves offered that day. Retired as the local brand inspector, I’d known Art all my life, a kind and honest man. I asked him when he put his bulls out, suspecting that his calves might be a little older than ours. He chuckled saying, “Oh, they sorta put themselves out!”

So much for trying to manage bulls by the numbers.

More rain has begun to appear from several sources in the forecast for Friday and Sunday after Thanksgiving, no gulleywashers, but hope for a little more moisture to add to our meager 1.50” so far this season. Our own unscientific forecast has storms arriving Sunday through Tuesday, close enough and reassuring. Nothing I’ve seen or read indicates that this will be anything but another dry year for the southern two-thirds of California and the United States.

More disturbing news from Daniel Swain’s ‘The California Weather Blog’ http://weatherwest.com/archives/author/thunder: “Over the past few weeks, a truly extraordinary “heat wave” has been taking place at a time of year when temperatures should be plummeting to bitterly cold values after the onset of “Polar Night.” Near the North Pole, surface temperatures have been at or near the freezing point for an extended period of time–around 35 degrees F above average, and not cold enough to allow for the formation of sea ice. This extreme warmth, combined with unusual wind patterns, have combined to produce record-low sea ice extent across much of the Arctic Ocean basin. In fact, (apparently) for the first time in the observational record, significant multi-day sea ice losses have occurred during the peak freeze-up season. Meanwhile, in Northern Siberia, extreme cold and incredibly deep snowfalls have been observed–itself likely a consequence of the lack of sea ice to the North. This has led to a rather incredible atmospheric setup where actual temperatures currently increase as one goes north from Eurasia to the North Pole.”

That’s the latest, we gird our loins, but ever thankful for what we have.