Category Archives: Ranch Journal

GOLDEN EAR-DROPS

Dicentra chrysantha, Woolley Canyon April 12, 2025

Woolley Canyon

A wonderful day for Robbin and me touring Woolley Canyon with Chuck and Lesley Fry where Virginia and Ken Mckee run their cows and calves. Though wild and rough (it takes a week to gather), it’s the most diverse piece of ground, ranging upwards to 3,600 feet, I’ve ever seen. Lots of wildflowers new to me:

Indian Pink (Silene californica)

Indian Warrior (Pedicularis densiflora)

THE LITTLE GENERAL

Epaulets on his shoulders,
I remember the cocky strut
of the redwing blackbird

beneath the grain bucket
mornings when we saddled horses,
back when we had a pond,

wild ducks and nested cattails,
but not enough water
to watch it evaporate—

and I miss them, miss the
mallards come the gloaming
on whistling feathers

with bellyflop landings
to safely spend the night.
It’s all about water.

TANGIBLE FANTASY

When the rains come right
and knee-deep green feed hides
beneath Fiddleneck in the flats,

we forget the bare, baked slopes
cut by dusty cow trails plunging
to the murmur of the diesel truck

spilling alfalfa flakes the length
of undressed pastures—lost bawling
calves and slow thin cows.

So blessed to have disremembered
the lean dry times, we believe
the miracle is normal, that Hera

and her daughters will set-up camp
and stay a fruitful future for man
and beast, creeks in the canyons—

a tangible fantasy for the thriving
when the rains come right
to change our way of thinking.

WAITING FOR THE STORM

Early spring garnish
before a mid-March rain,
wild colors claiming

lush shades of green
that cattle finish grazing
by eight o’clock.

Everybody feels
what’s coming,
despite the sunshine—

despite the rattling
of sabers
from would-be kings.

Snow on Sulphur





Snow comes off the mountain
on the backs of trucks,
white caps on compacts

like trophies
to melt on roads
into town—

cold hands
shoveled dirt driveways
steer downhill.

SPILT PAINT

Our canyon gleams
with sunlit shades
of rejuvenated green,

dirt tracks damp
after rain, white skiffs
of popcorn flowers

primed to usurp the flats
and gentle slopes
to divvy up with gilded

fiddleneck before the blue
lupine and golden poppies
display the sloppy guise

of springtime’s spilt paint
for photographs, daydreams
and April showers.

ADDENDUM

Dim light above the kitchen table,
wet wedding rings beneath ceramic coffee cups,
shod horses fidget in the aluminum gooseneck
outside before daylight.

“Are Bud and Monte comin’?”
“Nope, just you and me, Babe,” he grins
showing teeth beneath his moustache.

“Any stars?” she asks. “It’s s’posed to rain,
you know, sometime today.”

“A few holes in the clouds is all,”
as he looks up at the ceiling.

“With a little luck
we ought to make it up the hill
before it gets slick,
get the cattle down
and be home by the fire
before it gets too wet.”

After a pause and long swallow, she asks,
“You know what day it is?”

“Thursday, I think”

“Is that all?” she lets trail on her way to the sink.
“Oh, I’ll be goddamned:

Happy Valentine’s Day!”

Half-Inch

Far from the advertised Atmospheric River forecast, we are grateful for the much needed moisture overnight. Just a sprinkle when Robbin took this photograph yesterday evening as sunshine leaked through the approaching clouds.

THE VOCAL MINORITY

Night showers, cold damp dawn,
intense coyote octaves shrill—an eerie
screaming claims the canyon

as I search for forgotten details
for the morning’s branding,
worried for baby calves

before the crew arrives
for coffee and last minute
plans. What rarity has triggered

this assault on silence, what wild
imperative, what joy requires
such passionate agreement?

What have I missed
not learning the language
after fifty-five years?



I really dislike word press. I have wasted too much time today simply trying to pass along a comment on your blog entry today about coyotes. Before I moved to la la land north, at the ranch I used to enjoy this vocal minority calling to each other from valley floor (even if at times it sounded as if it was coming from just outside our bedroom window) to the upper hills and then beyond into the canyons and back again. Lonely. Eerie. Beautiful.
Keep on writing, my friend. You weave beautiful poetry beyond telling city folks about life (mostly work) on the ranch up Dry Creek Road.


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