Azure ridge after ridge unfold
into a swirl of storm clouds leaving,
as if heaven sent, wrapping hidden
peaks of scree with snow, thirty miles away
from this conflagration of cottonwoods,
willows and sycamores below. I look
up the throat of the Kaweah for a sign—
hoping, praying, as we begin again,
for grass-fat calves through spring.
Three hundred rings along the creek,
five months dry—another chance
to live, another chance to die
marked with autumn’s fleeting
splendor. Soon naked and lithe,
these old sycamores will cavort
the winter long, memorize and
improvise each lunge and pirouette
until the dance is crystalized
within my mind. Blessed be
the seasons as examples of
yet another chance to get it right.
After the first cold night,
my eyes leap to drink
the dying colors in—
the last clasp of stubborn
summer’s steamy green
giving up its leaves.
Soothed by the taste
of truth within these
softer shades of fire,
I am relieved
to make my nest
among the wild
and uncivilized—
a calling where instead
I pray for me.
A stirring in the canyon,
golden filaments of grass
parting for a pagan tribe
just before rain, skulking
corners in my brain
the light has seldom seen—
that wild connection
of throwback senses
that once meant something.
Yet I claim totems
and hang fetishes of rock
and bone while waiting.
We celebrate survivors,
pay homage to
who we hope to be—
that with a little luck
leave quietly—not stray
too close to the road.
We have places yet
before the plow,
the yellow steel,
for naked grace—
the wild dance
that steps lightly
upon this ground.
Our clumsy dreams
are child’s play,
drunken dumb shows
of cell phone selfies
squinched in squares.
Blessed be the buck
in rut with purpose
beyond the wire.
Any man can be a star
when the ground is hard
and short of feed—
and when the crowd
clambers for relief,
any man can be a god
in certain quarters
if he can load a truck
with good alfalfa hay.
Yet the compassionate man
loathes the burden,
despises his inadequacy
to make Nature rain.
Any man can be a star,
but she’s in charge.
A deep dark brown upon well-worn ground,
the luster of acorns ripe for consumption
litter the roadway, the steep dirt trail
to cows and calves expecting hay or rain.
How the oaks fed us all, once upon a time,
ground and leached into a meal—filling
the bellies of bear and deer, or crushed
beneath a wheel for quail, or swallowed
whole by Band-tailed Pigeons and Wood Ducks.
At maturity, a forgotten crop awaits but few
harvesters, a steady dwindling of wild souls
that owned this space and lived well-enough
to prosper generations. What seed have we
to leave, now that we have changed the world—
what truths have we left to tell our children?
Forecast dry, blond fuzz thin,
long black line of heifers camped,
necks bent to flakes of hay
at Halloween, it seems, like always.
Wood Ducks by the thousands
migrate to the base of the Sierras,
to Spanish Flats and the Live Oak
above the pond that waters cattle—
not room enough to float them all,
they come to harvest acorns.
Bleak weeks ahead, we grit our teeth.
Damn few poems hang on trees
shedding leaves, only crooked fingers
dripping crimson, Buckeyes beckoning.
We know where we are in the West
waiting for a rain, chasing forecasts,
feeding hay, thinking about praying
to gods and goddesses alike,
to the floating spirits, the old parts
of the whole soul that dwells here
with you and me, and with the souls
of dear helping hands on this dry ground
cut by canyons and grazed by our family
of cows—our circle of souls surround us
waiting for a rain. A faith so
commonplace, we take it for granted.
