Rising from the saddle
beneath Sulphur,
a full wolf moon views
first break in the rain
for over a week
as if to assess
a rare miracle:
green slopes leaking
rivulets spilling
into draws into creeks
foamed like Irish coffee.
We are drunk with it
wanting more, another
warm sweet storm
to validate
a lifetime—this
wild existence:
grass and rain,
cows to graze
our blurred exposure.
Posted in Photographs, POEMS 2023, Ranch Journal
Tagged Buena Vista, Drought, Dry Creek, Fishermen's Wharf, Irish Coffee, photography, poetry, rain, weather
No word of the whereabouts
of La Niña 3, one more dry year
waiting in the wings to sell cows
and feed more hay—instead,
8 days rain out of 9 and more
to come, bare canyon green.
We are helpless, flood or drought,
her fickle Nature always serving
what she wants, anywhere, anytime.
Posted in Photographs, POEMS 2023, Ranch Journal
Tagged cattle, Drought, green, Mother Nature, photography, poetry, rain, rainbow, weather
After a decade, we gave-up prayer,
swallowed our appeals to pagan gods
and goddesses that might be listening—
we forgot the feel of tall green feed
wet upon our knees, resigned ourselves
to do without—to adapt to drought.
Wettest December in a century,
but for the floods of ’55 and ’66,
I don’t regret what I wished for.
Posted in Photographs, POEMS 2023, Ranch Journal
Tagged careful what you wish for, December rains, Drought, Dry Creek, floods, photography, poetry, rain, weather
Thanks to science,
we’re learning new lingo
to rhyme with reason—
plus head-scratching acronyms
to break meter and thought.
Six straight days wet
and a good chance
for a dozen more
floating along
this atmospheric river.
________________________________
Flowing 962 cfs @ 8:00 a.m. at the brush catchers, Dry Creek peaked at 1,400 cfs @ 3:00 a.m., Badger having received 3.81″ upstream in the last 24 hrs. 1.61″ for us.
Posted in Photographs, POEMS 2023, Ranch Journal
No time to rush! Let me linger,
relearn the mantra,
absorb the moment.
Time will escape me soon enough.
The forecast storm is bogged-down north.
We’re wet enough
to have a spring—
wildflowers blooming in our dreams.
Feeding horses, I catch the mist—
each tiny drop
upon my tongue
tastes like this passing moment.
Posted in Photographs, POEMS 2023
Tagged age, photography, poetry, rain, time, urgency, weather
The jobs I’d rather do
crowd first in line
to steal my mind away
from the more mundane
and routine responsibilities
to climb inside the Cat
skid steer, feel its hydraulic
strength pump to load
a ton or more or move
a five-ton stump
closer to the coals—
clean-up the tangled mess
Edison left to cover
their derrières
beneath the wires.
Seven-day burn,
4-foot thick eucalyptus,
I scoured the pasture
for fallen-limb kindling
to keep the flame
alive inside me.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2022
Tagged burning deadfall, hydraulic muscle, photography, poetry
Gray canyon rain,
café au lait rivulets
overfill vernal pools
spreading to the creek
just begun to run
at the end of December.
She stayed overnight
and all day, lingering
to leave us extra rain,
as if we were old lovers
trying to give the past
a second chance—
she offers nourishment
to thirsty earth, bare slopes
a cover of color come spring:
a team of sunlit Wood Ducks
at the edges of water pooled
grazing with horses.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2022, Ranch Journal
Tagged Dry Creek, photography, poetry, rain, runoff, vernal pools, water, weather, Wood Ducks
Dirt track before asphalt,
ruts in mud, December sycamores
after a rain waiting to undress,
like always—it feels the same
to escape upcanyon in your painting,
leaving main roads behind
before it was engineered
for 18 wheels to haul gravel—
town politics behind us.
Before the flood of ’55,
Terminus Dam in ’61,
much has changed
except for the feeling you’ve captured
of peaceful adventure
at every beginning of our road home.
for Myrtle Sue Redford
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2022
Tagged Dry Creek, Dry Creek Road 1946, Mrytle Sue Redford, photography, poetry, sycamores
Stacked in the valley
and thick as milk gravy,
it spills over the ridge
in slow-rolling waves
eclipsing the daylight
to swallow you up
in cold cottony gray.
Easy to get lost in the fog
when you can’t see
your horse’s wet ears—
find something dry
to start a fire
and wait for it to lift—
or trust he knows
his blind way home.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2022, Ranch Journal
Tagged fog, photography, poetry, Tule fog, weather
This is not scripture it’s a dream,
a dream, the stuff our life is made of.
– Jim Harrison (“A Dog in the Tomb”)
Wild apple on a stick, we pray
it’s tart and tasty in our veins,
then to our hearts to play
on the cinematic screen
in our brains while we sleep—
when we check out of the mundane.
Wild apple on a stick, we pray
it’s fresh and full of mysteries
left to address, our flesh enlived.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2022
Tagged alive, DREAMS, fresh, Jim Harrison, mysteries, photography, poetry, wild
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