Everyone is happy, I exclaim—
half-inch rain after forty-five days without—
grass, trees, birds and animals revived,
the February air full of the future
as black cows and calves ascend
the green slopes across the canyon
reaching for the richer ridgetop feed
by evening. We raise a glass
to the generosity of all the native
gods and goddesses, to the crow pair
robbing nests and the bobcat trailing quail,
the ground re-energized—the vitality of life
spilling right before our eyes.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2022, Ranch Journal
The dark hole in the barn
that once was leafy, fine-stemmed alfalfa
for six-months feeding, rides on a rain
as wildflowers get ahead of the green
making color, making seed—a spectacle
that will eclipse the hopes and dreams
that drew us to this tipping point in time.
Seems we’re always on the cusp of perfect
storms, praying for enough that we might
meld into the wealth of these steep slopes
we belong to, marvel at the cattle
and forget about the money and the market
for a moment as we and our old neighbors
hold invisible hands and hobble around
the maypole to appease our pagan genes.
Christmas storms colored the canyon early,
purple brodiaea, blue lupine, white flakes of snow
upon the green as wildfires of poppies spread
slope to slope, mid-February, forty-five days
warm without rain. I used to think I knew
what it took to paint these hills with flowers,
like the warm spring rains in ’78
after the drought. Living here 100 years,
Nora Montgomery claimed she’d never seen
so many poppies in this canyon, solid gold—
nor I since. Each a fantasy, no two springs
the same, we live in the 10-day forecast
for rain, for grass, for cattle. The Old
Farmer’s Almanac predicts a backwards
spring, growing cooler through April—
we never know, and like the cattle
in grazing circles, we plod through time,
always eager for another taste of spring.
You see the sign and smell their cud
hanging low in the open
where they have laid, grass blades
pressed exchanging thoughts
and gossiping while fat calves slept
with dreams of more of the same:
no clutter of ambition or greed
living in the moment—
easily startled by those who don’t.
Gentle families: mothers, daughters
grandmothers grow to know you
over a lifetime, learn to read
your eyes, your mind—some
more curious than others
makes you wonder.
What is left to add to the millions of words
in books of poems stacked on shelves around me,
as if by some osmotic marvel they might impart
a simple brilliance, a lasting, unfettered glow
that I might capture and travel the page by?
My early morning sojourns into darkness seek
reveries I can hear and feel with my hands,
well-apart from the blinding light of day,
that prismed cacophony of lies driven by
man’s ugly nature of greed and power.
I crave blackness under clouds and crisp
moon shadows in a breeze, redrawing
constellations from twinkling starlight
like the ceiling of the old Fox Theater
from where I believed Walt Disney fell.
The primal bellow of a bull or the prolonged
serenades of a hundred coyotes in the canyon,
January is a month in love at night. Closing
the distance between hoots, the owls
have finally agreed on a tree to raise a family.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2022
Tagged another world, darkness, poetry, traveling at night
She foresees an early spring,
winter warm as we brand calves
in the open space between rains
this ground and cattle need
as much as we for our sanity.
The finches vie for corners
in the post and beams
that hold the roof and summer sun
at bay. Fat ground squirrels play
grab-ass, warming-up
for the real thing, planting seed
for fresh armies of vermin
to attack the garden.
Already the love songs
of a hundred coyotes
fill our dark canyon
from dusk to dawn—invite
the dogs to sing along.
One never knows about the weather—
it can do anything anytime it wants
to make geniuses or fools of us all.
Small world here, an eddy
in the cutbank of a raging stream
like Roaring River
before it dumps into the Kings—
Río de los Santos Reyes,
or like Cloud Canyon
our honeymoon camped
upon soft needles
in the moving shadow
of a huge Sugar Pine—
Cement Table
apart from the foaming current
and thunderous cascades
of man’s designs.
Small world here making circles,
gathering cattle to brand
around the weather,
putting crews of neighbors
and meals together
for a picnic:
bring your horse
for a slow dance
of wide loops,
tight ropes
and camaraderie—
we are family
chasing seasons
for a lifetime.
Small world here in the darkness
of a moonless morning, stars
like glinting diamonds set
in black velvet, a universe
unfolding beyond reason.
It’s not easy to get glimpses of myself
among the young men in the branding pen,
awkward young bulls bellowing
as they wrestle fat calves to the ground.
Yesterday, I carried the nut-bucket
and dope instead of riding with a rope,
instead of sliding a wide loop
beneath two feet. I can feel it, see it
in my mind, the smooth dance and dally
round a cotton-wrapped horn, rolling
calves and slipping slack when needed—
but my metronome has slowed.
I don’t wish to be among the old chiefs
who stayed too long to become obstacles
in space and time just to be aboard,
just to lend a neighbor’s hand, like always.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2021, Ranch Journal
Tagged age, branding pen, community, neighbors
Never arriving, what can we understand,
and always leaving, what’s left to explain?
– Su Tung-p’o (“After T’ao Ch’ien’s ‘Drinking Wine’”)
Leaving only the moment, I remain in this canyon’s swirl
of loose pieces, histories before me beckon memories
and how it’s changed in my lifetime to survive the storms
of wet and dry that forsake young skeletons of hillside families
to stand among the forgotten limbs at their feet.
I hold this landscape’s perfect smile of emerald green
in dreams, waiting for a glimpse of her velvet face,
wild skiffs of colored flowers entwined in her hair,
amid the planet’s storms for power, day and night—
always faulty propositions for the masses.
As I draw closer, leaving an uphill trail of time behind,
this place I have circumnavigated since I was a child
owns me—now that its desires have become mine.
My eyes ride the ridgelines at the edges of heaven
where I will rest easily when I finally arrive.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2022
Tagged Classical Chinese Poetry, landscape, Leonard Durso, Su Tung-p'o, time
Last flash of limbs
in a pagan dance
as shadows crawl
across the creek
to pull night’s curtain up
into the stars.
The canyon has come to life
with promises of spring—
birds and trees are talking
above the bulls’ primal bellowing—
tension spills with energy.
Shrill yips and howls
in every draw ignites
another all-night
canine celebration
to exasperate the dogs.
Even the old flesh perks up
with fresh strategies,
just in case the market’s up
and we get more rain—
just enough to do it over again.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2022, Ranch Journal
Tagged cattle business, celebration, pagan dance, rain, spring, sycamores, water, weather
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