Bequette Corrals 2019

 

 

The original board pens were old when they were moved here in 1959 to accommodate the construction of Terminus Dam. Since the 90s, we’ve slowly replaced the boards with pipe. Two weeks ago, we finished upgrading these corrals with time enough to electrify the covered working area for the hydraulic chute and scales. We needed facilities to efficiently process and ship our Wagyu X calves. No two corral set-ups operate the same, even if copied exactly, as the landscape where they are located seems to be a factor in cattle behavior.

 

 

As required by our contract with Snake River Farms, yesterday we finished administering a second-round of vaccinations two weeks before we wean and ship two loads of calves to Idaho. It’s been like learning a new dance in these pens as we process the calves and deworm their mothers, experimenting as we go with what seems to be easiest on the cattle. After today’s fourth bunch, we’ve got our basic footwork down. A small, but nice set of pens for about sixty pairs, about as many as we want to do in a morning.

 

 

CANDELABRA

 

 

Wild inspiration
to ignite each arm of grace
with blooms for a room.

 

PERCEPTIONS AT DAYBREAK

 

 

Three greenheads beat wings up canyon
into the rosy hue of dawn clinging to the ridgeline—
predecessors leaving me to shape the last
couplet before I find my place among them.

I catch glimpses quaking in the leaves
of a redbud, in the shadow of an oak trunk
and especially reflected in the eyes of cows
awaiting direction as proof of the spirits

that occupy this place, my home—that wish
to appear through cloudy lenses of my own.

 

PERSPECTIVE

 

 

Crowded outer space,
red sputniks and satellites
between us and God.

 

ECHINOPSIS IN MAY

 

 

One-night bloom well-spent
at once—a dazzling display
of brilliance gone limp.

 

IN THE THICK OF IT

 

 

A short leap before
we look back, freeze and believe
we are invisible.

 

CUT OFF LOW

 

 

The air is clear, clean—ridgelines
sharp with thunderstorms elsewhere,
too late to prolong the dream
of an everlasting spring.

The mottled transition of grasses
against crisp shadows holds,
drawing from ample winter rains
to become a painting, a pinto—

a young, firm-muscled overo
with good withers, soft mouth
and big heart, so seductive
as to lose myself to ride

these slopes for the first time—
like your eyes this evening,
hands reaching to touch softly
without the weight of words.

 

WIND IN MY HAND

 

 

Awaiting words on the wind,
sharpened pencil and
yellow, short-lined pad—

the first leaf lifts
as I sneak a look
at the next page

searching for poetry
that feels good
in my hand.

 

INHALING HORSES

 

 

As the early-morning Pink Moon
wanes in the blue
west of sunrise after Easter

soothes my Monday mind
with the habits of horses
waiting at their mangers—

alfalfa stems in windrows
at their feet, rolled and picked
clean of leaf before the sweeter

beckoning of short-cropped green
going to seed, I pause
to inhale their earthy smell.

 

REFLECTION

 

 

Some ‘last times’ are chiseled
in the maze of our minds:
of the dear departed
or the dreadful lessons,
lest we forget.

But no framed portrait of your face
hanging near my heart, only
half-a-century’s hazy conjuring
of vital growing pains
I still owe you for.

                           for Susie