Tag Archives: alfalfa hay




The black hole in the barn

has grown since August

as we peel-off long green


(high-dollar hay) vacuumed-up

by cows nursing hungry calves.

Al the prognosticators


tease us with promises

of thunderstorms tonight

if only to settle the dust.



No rare, sixteen-ounce
Chile Verde Rib Eye
leftovers to box for home,
no Iceberg Old School
wedge with Blue Cheese 
crumbles, no red wine
bottle at twice the price
to finish before leaving
town—no spoiling us
these Covid days,
though we tire
of our own cooking,
of feeding hay without rain.
Bare acres, not a spear 
of feed half-way 
up the mountain,
these good cows wait 
with their calves
at the gate for dinner.





We feed our future,
as it approaches, plenty
of alfalfa hay.





Following fifty tons
through light showers
across Nevada,

big alfalfa bales
towards our dry
California home,

we focus on raindrops
streaking reality
after a week of poetry

and song, to feel
our poor possibilities
grow by the truckload—

heavy with an endless
emptiness in our bellies
beneath the straps

of seat belts
before another wreck.
We hang on.