Lifeblood

 

10:00 a.m., January 8, 2017: 629 cfs

10:00 a.m., January 8, 2017: 629 cfs

 

Not quite the storm of the decade, Dry Creek peaked at 1,390 cfs early yesterday morning. As of this morning, accumulated rainfall since the first of the year on lower Dry Creek has been a little over 4 inches, with yet another storm forecast to bring about 1.5″ due midday tomorrow—all welcome.

The continual gray clouds and rain of late seems miraculous when contrasted with the bare hills and dust of the past four years that have been permanently imprinted in our minds as more normal than not. The drought changed our thought processes and how we operate the ranch. And despite the ample availability of water streaming in nearly every canyon, I have often caught myself still worrying about stockwater. It’s how we lived, day to day, for a long time.

It’s good to see the creek running, the literal lifeblood of the canyon, a psychological lift as we inhale the moist air and relax a little before addressing the work that waits ahead of us. We have calves to brand and watergaps to fix as soon as we can physically get to them, when the roads dry out and creek goes down, which probably won’t be until next week if tomorrow’s storm materializes.

 

IN DEFENSE OF MYTHS

 

 

Bred to be resilient, this earth
and all its faces, from stern to joyful,
offer sustenance to each of us
unequally. We find our place
eventually incorporated
into the fertile mulch of mankind
always ready for a storm.

Close to the ground, we trust
upon the old-time gods
to herd the winds our way
with young deities-in-training
to gather the renegades, black
clouds refusing to settle
against the Sierra’s jagged grin

to feed our rivers, creeks and streams—
myths more cryptic and credible
than today’s gadgetry designed to be
tomorrow’s useless obsolescence, yet
with the all the right apps
we can give-up on dreaming,
even believing in ourselves.

 

ENCORE

 

 

Dark theater, gentle applause
spreads from roof to balcony
beginning the Gig of the Decade

                    Janis Joplin at the Shrine,
                    all-electric, deafening wails
                    of agony and fury released

to storm the canyon, swell the creek
with memories: every rig hip-deep
in a frappé of clay, a daisy chain
of pickups and winches leapfrogging,
churning chocolate pudding
to the asphalt, warm woodstove
and loud whiskey replays
of how we learned the hard way.

                    Big Brother’s tuning-up
                    behind the black curtain,
                    yellow and green stage left
                    on the radar as we wait.

 

YouTube: ‘Maybe’

 

Rain & Flood Advisory

 

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With ample warnings from various sources, we’ve been preparing for more rain. Wednesday and Thursday brought 1.5” here on Dry Creek which peaked @ 233 cfs Wednesday night—all quite tame—so far. The ground was saturated after 5” of rain in December, a third of our average annual rainfall, and most all of what may be coming our way will end up as runoff.

The byword all week has been ‘atmospheric river’ with various amounts of rain forecast for the next ten days that range from 5-15”. Low snow levels in our Sierra Nevada mountains down to 4,000’ from the last storm, now await a large warm storm slated to arrive tomorrow morning and last through Monday with rain up to an elevation of 9,000’, bringing the real risk of some downstream flooding.

Though the high-end rainfall projections may be hearsay from the local doughnut shop, they spark memories of past years when we weren’t able to cross Dry Creek for weeks. Speculating beyond that is unnecessary, but the beekeeper who parks his hives along the creek for the winter moved them all to higher ground last night.

What we do know is that the Dry Creek channel is laden with deadfall since the last four years of drought, with many dead-standing oaks and sycamores along its banks. The last channel-cleaning was in 1997 when Dry Creek peaked near 7,000 cfs and tipped the brush catchers over across from the house. We can be sure that every barbwire watergap between neighbors and pastures will be gone, cattle free to graze the canyon from Badger to Lemon Cove and points beyond.

This morning we’ll be cleaning gutters and culverts, testing the backup generator, and ensuring that our cows and calves, that have yet to be branded, won’t be trapped on the wrong side of the creek. It may be one of those years when the calves are big and help from the neighbors hard to come by, but we’re all in the same boat—launching tomorrow.

 

Tenugui

 

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Appropriately, my hand-dyed ‘tenugui’ arrived just ahead of a string of storms from Japan to California that are predicted to deliver five inches of rain beginning this evening through January 9th. A gift from Evelynne Matsumoto that “seems to bring rain in Japan” depicts Raijin, the mythical deity of thunder and lightening and Fujin, the deity of the wind. Having the rain and the Raijin tenugui arrive at the same time is no more inexplicable and astonishing than reconnecting with Evelynne, my babysitter of sixty-five years ago—just full of magic.

As followers of my poetry know, I am easily susceptible to the notions of special gods and goddesses for rain, and subsequently intrigued by the 100s of deities that are revered and recognized in traditional Japanese culture. By comparison our culture today will never be as rich or lasting.

 

Gesundheit!!

 

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Living where we work, our exposure and resistance to ever-evolving, human contagions is limited. And though our immune systems may be naïve, we’re seldom sick. But since a busy Christmas here with family, kids and grandkids, Robbin and I remained sequestered at home to ring in the New Year by counting our blessings after each barrage of consecutive sneezes.

 

 

NEW YEAR’S EVE 2017

Self-medicating between bouts
of consecutive sneezes
and my repeated gesundheits,

your eyes raised to invisible lines
of poetry you’ve been writing
in the kitchen that you squint

to read, and then erase,
edit with a fingertip:
family gifts at Christmas

multiplied as germs exchanged
from big box malls to stockings full
all-across America—and more

you couldn’t decipher
or I can’t remember, trying
anything to get better.

 

SUMMONS

 

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A fruitless exercise, I assess the scales of justice
teetering in my head, the sensitivity of the beam
like a perpetual motion machine connecting dozens

of other juggling acts dependent upon one another
for balance—not like drafts of cattle weighed
to be paid for, no easy answer with a number.

Inside the dark cavern of my skull, a three-ring
circus juggling facts and intuition with the low
and silent grace of a Red Tail on the kill,

with poetic conversations with the gods and all
my angry rants at play—I am prejudice, too long
reading bovine thoughts and equine attitudes

to ignore what I see beyond the hard evidence.
Well out of the mainstream, far from the current
innocence, I am biased and about half-deaf.

 

CLOUD OF SMOKE

 

Rough Fire - July 28, 2015

Rough Fire – July 28, 2015

 

                    The beauty of things—the beauty of transhuman things
                    Without which we are lost.

                         – Robinson Jeffers (“Granddaughter”)

I claim the disheveled refuge of age
addled by magic devices beyond
the amalgamation of basic elements,

the dirt and water, the living foundation
from which we spring and are akin,
intriguing as a relative to trees that dance

and rocks that talk about the past,
solid and lasting. A balancing act:
my slow retreat just short of the attic

I am promised, mercifully sequestered
‘Someday Soon’ with Ian’s tune.
I want blaring sing-alongs to leave upon!

                    I’d be down that road in a cloud of smoke
                    For some land that I ain’t bought bought bought

                         – Guy Clark (“L.A. Freeways”)

 

WAKE-UP CALL

 

photo: Jaro Spichalova

photo: Jaro Spichal

 

I steal a look into the blurry morning mirror
after a second cup of coffee: a gray Medusa-do
replacing decades of darker curiosities

that recollect the Brylcreem coifs, the forelock
dip, loose strands dangling like my connection
to rock and roll—to the replaceable, double-A hearts

of Ricky and Elvis inside my Zenith transistor
a long ways from town—from the here and now
before I turn away from the worn-out look

that chuckles back at me. But this is the way
to wake up to reality, like Perseus, with only
quick glances into Athena’s shiny shield.

 

CHRISTMAS 2016

 

photo: Jaro Spichalova

photo: Jaro Spichal

 

                    Wherever the mind dwells apart is itself
                    a distant place.

                         – T’ao Ch’ien (“Drinking Wine”)

We have been there, idling across pastures
like cattle to ridgetops with focused eye
turned blurry with the mind’s appeal to wander—

an easy trek in open space, we gravitate
to isolated places where granite rocks
take the shape of animals, where oak trees

dance with sweeping boughs and speak
a language without words we comprehend.
When we come home to flesh, to the clatter

and complicated clutter of more mortal busyness,
our senses shocked and fogged with dismay,
we become the aliens for a moment on this planet

returning with translations, with fresh offerings
of peace and poetry—we nod to all the animals,
leaving little gifts of good-will along the way.