Surprised, they were glad to see us,
remembered green alfalfa leaf
and came with half-grown children
out of the brush, the canyons,
off ridges to follow
without a thought of escaping.
We are family, know the routine:
dear cowboys and cattle,
me and my machine.
Early morning gathers to wean our calves interrupt the blogging routine, along with age and rising temperatures as we acclimate towards summer. My son is down from the City, welcome and valuable help, good company and humor, we’ve kept him busy since Saturday. My head is full of unfinished poems, taking a backseat to the work at hand.
Posted in Ranch Journal
Our white Echinopsis has begun to bloom under gray skies and the light was fading when I thought of the camera. Because of their placement on the deck, perspective complicated the process, but with interesting results, I think, through the railing.
Native of South America, there are 129 known species of Echinopsis.
Posted in Haiku 2015, Photographs, Poems 2015, Ranch Journal
Tagged Easter Lilies, flower-friday, garden, Japan, vegetables
Posted in Haiku 2015, Photographs, Ranch Journal
The boys are on vacation across the creek as we gather to wean our calves from their mothers. With each new bull added to their pasture, primal bellows ring up and down the canyon as they establish a new pecking order since they were last together.
The Mrnak Herefords have been the basis of our crossbreeding program, adding heterosis, or bybrid vigor, to our Angus cow herd. ‘119’, pictured above, has completed his third year of service with every cow in his pasture recently palpated bred, a remarkable accomplishment considering the steep terrain.
Two years ago he broke one his horns in a battle with an Angus bull, two years his senior, that ended tragically for the Angus. Fortunately, we were able to doctor and repair his broken horn. King of our bulls, he still has to prove himself as the recent raw spots between his horns attest.
Posted in Haiku 2015, Photographs, Ranch Journal
Tagged Garter Snake, Toad, weekly-photo-challenge
Gray overcast in May at dawn,
stillness separated from a slow
awakening downcanyon, not a breath
to shape the thin white cloud
hanging this side of Sulphur Peak
frozen in my mind. Time has stopped
to hold the finches and sparrows
closer to their nests, coyotes linger
curling in their dens as we drink
another cup in silence, inhaling
this fresh dampness with a cigarette.
Softened hillsides begin to breathe
and sigh refreshed—even the barn
comes clean and alive. Pleasantly
dumbfounded, we add occasional
adjectives, fail to complete
a thought out loud, but nothing
interrupts what our old eyes see.