Still Life Blessings

 

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Fresh-picked fruit waiting for family, friends and rain to arrive. 1.30″

 

BIRDS OF A FEATHER

 

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Like quail before a rain, like deer
we gather in the granite brush
that yet survives the times and us—

around a fire. Lift a water glass
to the first ones here, a jam jar to
the pioneers that spawned this bond

of swirling smoke we nose at dawn
within our clothes and grin, trying:

                               to remember when
we loved life, or one another more.

 

ZEITGEIST or TOMATO SOUP SKY

 

photo: Bodhi Rouse

photo: Bodhi Rouse

 

Never figured on a sunset,
children, grandchildren around
a smoky Live Oak fire,
the SoCal storm bleeding north

                    above a frost-bitten garden—
                    dry stem tomatoes
                    and peppers hanging
                    like ornamental gifts
                    for Christmas.

I thought I escaped California in 1970
to ride back through time, didn’t think
I’d camp in one place this long.

Never figured on iPhone photos,
satellite dish for shade—
or planning for a future
that depends on water
and obsolescence.

 

Winter Solstice 2016

 

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It’s habitual, looking to the mountains for our future, the Kaweah Peaks over Remy Gap in the southern Sierra Nevada above, not completely dressed in snow from the last storm on December 16th— another forecast for the 23rd. Ideally, the snow is laid in while it’s cold enough to freeze before mid-January, then slow melt to feed our rivers and replenish the groundwater in the San Joaquin Valley, once the most productive agricultural region in the world, or so I was told in college.

Much has changed since the 60s when Visalia was a town of 16,000. Now a city populated by 124,000 people drawing on groundwater resources year-round. The growth of Valley towns has also displaced some of our best agricultural ground in a short span of fifty years. The implementation of flood control structures on nearly every river on the west slope of the Sierras since, regulating surface water flows, have also had a severe impact to groundwater levels in the Valley. Add the wild cards of drought and more deep wells, less low snow as the climate changes, ours is not a hand to bet on long.

Well-meaning, but onerous, water legislation will not create more water. Nor will the monies set aside to build more dams, especially since we haven’t filled the ones we have in years. But for us, and most foothill livestock producers, we look to the Sierra snowpack this time of year for our future summer stockwater, the small leaks in granite cracks that feed our springs providing water for cattle and wildlife.

 

ERRANT BULL

 

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The wire goes cold.
Red tail-hair hangs by a barb in a tangle.
Horned-bull bellowing in the flats
among the heifers close to the Solstice
half-moon waning—mark it somewhere
                    on a mind wall,
                    potential trouble in a poem
                    filed in cyberspace.

The wire goes cold.
A trumpet blares from my buttoned pocket,
beneath a zippered vest and heavy Carhartt
look-a-like advertising Purina Hi-Pro,
coils and split-reins in a gloved left hand,
small loop in the right with a flying U ready
to remind the bull he’s half-way home
and it won’t stop bugling
                    as if nearby
                    the cavalry
                    was just over the rise.

The wire goes cold.
We text and vox from the ridgetops,
from what our eyes have gathered
from the ranch. No emergency—
Cowboy Celtic wants to Facetime.
As we push the heifers another field away,
                    I call them back
                    and we yak
                    and they ride with me,
                    see green country
                    and cattle to the gate
                    just above the ears
                    of my horse.

 

TENUGUI

 

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1.

Other worlds beyond,
beneath the canopies
of the woods gone wild
to shed their leaves,

naked near the Solstice,
unending limbs entwined
unseen unless I move
outside my cluttered mind—

ignored and warmed
by the murmured songs
of smaller gods
I sense when I am gone.
 

2.

It is a mistake, you know,
to map your favorite fishing hole—
to let trout leap from photograph
to fire in the company
of hungry strangers. Best
leave your luck to the mystic
and the magic of cryptic poetry
felt before it’s understood.
 

3.

I imagine a narrow wild rag,
your gift of Raijin thunder
and lightening coming—
an angry Japanese print
I might wear anywhere
outside to get attention
from stormy weather,
for the bladder full of water
slung over his shoulders
we might all profit by.

 

BATHING IN MILK

 

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I watch cows for affirmation
of living simply well without

                                               you know,

those self-centered addictions
like bathing in milk, all the mirrored
poses dressed in wet white film

                                               completely

pure, all the grass or chopped alfalfa
rivers dripping tears of pearls
on the carpet, on the floor

                                               wasted

in front of the hungry—without
that arrogance we are famous for
flaunting—as if the devil cared
about another soul crowded into hell.

Right after a rain, they know the grass
grows taller and stronger at the top
of these steep hills, pausing long to graze
between each step of their calm ascent.

 

RAIN UNDONE

 

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Radar says the rain is done
pelting the tin roof, giggling
in the downspouts, in the black
super moonless, all-night storm
I slept through mostly—says

rumors of miracles and magic
cannot be reasons for the present
cold and wet upon my bare chest, or
flashlight drippings, diamonds
sliding down the rain gauge.

I believe what I want, personify
the needs of the smaller elements,
the addicts in our dry community:
all the off-the-wagon drunks afloat
with the miracle of rain undone.

 

 

2.38″

 

BLACK AND WHITE MOON

 

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Of all the deities,
she rises quickly
as we spin eastward
into the present tense
illuminated in a dark sky.

The gray seems blue,
oak trees in fright, filigreed
with filtered light rising free
of earthly probabilities—
after all is said and done.

The natives need wild gods
and goddesses to endure
the nonsense, the unfeeling
truth with no hues offered
for love or compassion.

 

PERIGEE-SYZYGY 2016

 

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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.