Category Archives: Ranch Journal

Weaning

 

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Gathering our lower country, we’ve begun weaning our calves where they’ll ‘soak’ in two different corrals for a week before the steers go to the auction yard in Visalia. The heifer calves will go to the irrigated pasture, open to plenty of dry feed, until the replacements are sorted in July.

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This year, after separating the calves from their mothers, we processed all with Inforce 3, a respiratory booster to the vaccination received at branding that is administered nasally. It acts immediately and should relieve any respiratory problems during the stress of weaning. Also, the calves received a topical dose of Cylence for the control of flies. Due to the tall dry feed, we had a number of eye problems, primarily foxtails that we doctored as we processed them.

All of these calves were sired by Vintage Angus bulls and weighed an average of 700 lbs., the heaviest to date from our lower country. We are pleased, of course, with their weights, but happier yet to get started with our weaning. Lots of music in the canyon, cows and calves bawling for one another.

 

IDES OF MAY

 

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We begin to gather
all the good news
showered upon us
from the sky,
harvest the grass
in the flesh of calves,
and like every year
we will weigh them,
measure our good fortune
with a number
to judge a season by.

We will turn the cows out
back to grass, back to homes
they’ve made on ground
good for little else
but wildlife—four-month
vacation with the girls
gossiping in the shade
without bulls
or nagging children
to disturb them.

Not a bad life
when it rains.

 

EAGLE EYE

 

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Cultivating a native life,
we pause for totems,
let them tell us
what they think—
who they are.

Some count on us
to stir the grass
and follow,
and some to listen
when we drink
coffee or wine
outside.

Claiming the roost
of loving crow mates,
a Golden Eagle lights
for a closer look at us—
and we are blessed.

Finding his feather
left ahead,
we believe
in something
more common
of the wild,

of talismans
from moments
we never forget
and hope to leave
as much.

 

RACISTS

 

Photo: Terri Blanke

Photo: Terri Drewry

 

In a world tall with grasses,
wild oats and rosy thatches
of dry filaree, we seldom see

our feet upon the earth.
In frequented places
like water troughs and barns,

like vegetable gardens
saving trips to town,
we are prejudiced—

react without a thought
against a race of snakes
that want no trouble

to claim the space
in which we travel
with a shovel.

                                    for Terri

GRAPES IN BLOOM

 

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Muggy morning beneath a raft of clouds
docked against the Sierras steals molecules
of oxygen beside the last hole dug for granddad’s

gravel that now traps tailwater from the pasture
in the summer, its dark, stagnant pool teams
with amoeba and paramecium, a fermenting

stench swum only by cormorants and mud hens.
Sweet fragrance on a gust startles my senses
to search the dry grass for color, tree limbs

for blossoms from willow to sycamore,
blackberry to cottonwood, but none in flower
before the forecast Mother’s Day thunderstorms.

Perfumed tendrils cling like Christmas lights
from branches and I am drenched, taste damp
sweetness as I become wild grapes in bloom.

 

All’s Well on Dry Crik

 

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Apparently I’m taking a break from daily blogging, and frankly, it feels good. We’re in maintenance mode, getting our equipment serviced and repaired before we begin weaning some nice calves this year. The market is off by a third from last year, nearly a dollar/pound, and we won’t have as many as calves to sell as before the drought, our cow herd down by 40%. We’ll see some red ink this season.

The good news is that we have lots of grass that ought to carry us through until fall. We also have some awfully nice replacement heifers that pre-checked well, bred to Wagyu bulls, as we begin our rebuilding process. At 18 months they averaged 1100 pounds, due to calve in mid-September.

More than likely posts will be sporadic for awhile.

 

OBITUARY

 

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Bright color in the thin shade
of dry casualties: proud skeletons
of fathers and grandfathers,

generations of Blue Oaks standing
stoically against the sky, against
time as the earth comes alive.

Each silent prayer is a short nod
in passing—too many decomposing
monuments for long eulogies

no one will remember—
we dance past death
as the last obstacle to life.

 

ECHINOPSIS EVOLVED

 

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Flash of tender bloom
on thorny spines for one day
each year: from hard times.

 

210

 

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We have our homes
and scratching posts
near at hand, grass
beds and running water
when it rains, we have
almost everything
that matters.

 

FAREWELL SPRING

 

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Funny how I can’t remember
just how the Lupine looked
like a brand-new town,

the crowded Gilia, white heads
bowed without a photograph
for proof. All the pretty faces

gone, I have a crush on spring—
as my mother, her coffee cup
beside me, would often say

of my impetuousness—I fall hard,
all ill feelings squeezed
from the inside out, swept away.

But etched in my skin, in the walls
of my brain, I can’t forget the dust,
every particle I inhaled of drought.