Exploring with a gun alone, oak trees
spoke to me—Red Tails swooped
to the wounded and buzzards trailed
at a safe distance when I was ten—
half-wild, I thought, circumambulating
the endless draws and canyons that called
for company and conversation—shooting
squirrels and hunting rattlesnakes in rock piles.
They would have jailed my folks today.
The first butterfly I saw batted by a bobcat
played better than Walt Disney, better than
the Space Race, Cold War or Sputnik.
Sulphur – December 11, 2014
No father or mother left to leave
a Christmas gift under the tree—
even the child in us understands.
An ever-ready substitute, the old
Hereford bull plods along the fence
looking past the asphalt, gutturally
conversing with the neighbor’s
registered Angus mothers
while his younger brethren work
the steep brush and rock,
gather families in the wild
from last year’s seed.
Kept another year, just in case
someone gets hurt, we become
the extras for the gods—
walk the sidelines
lending words to the old songs
‘lest the world forgets
the melodies of Christmas
when it rains, or snows low
leaving only grass under trees.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2014, Ranch Journal
Tagged Blue Oak, bulls, Calves, Christmas, cows, grass, Greasy Creek, old songs, photographs, poetry, rain, snow, Sulphur Peak, weather, writing
Coffee and cigarettes in the cold outside,
counting cattle on the hillside, black dots
on green, we wait for the sun to rise—
to break through the fringe skeletons
of oaks atop the ridge with blinding shards
of light. I lean into the shadow of the post
that holds the beam and roof together,
edging north towards the Solstice
most mornings in December, unless
it’s raining blurry streaks of gray
from a dark sky. Half-dressed sycamores
await the creek to run again, flash bare limbs
before the dancing tangle of nymphs
and hobgoblins. In the middle of a miracle,
I am awash with it while staying dry.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2014, Ranch Journal
Tagged Blue Oak, Drought, Dry Creek, photographs, poetry, rain, sunrise, sycamores, weather
We waited through dry and dusty years
and prayed the only way we knew—
like tithing, throwing hard-bought hay
to the gods on the ground everyday.
Our muttered mantra clunked along
like an old machine, inhaling pauses,
exhaling groans until it came to turn
the earth around with a covering
of iridescent green, teasing the dead
and dying oak trees—like us or like
the cows we raised and had to sell—
with rain and one more promise.
New life lands on the open beam
that holds the roof and sings
in the sudden rain—a black and gold
Oriole on the edge of its Southwest
range—a happy song delivered quickly.
A sign in this downpour, an omen
I am to remember when season’s over
and the grass turns blond and brittle—or
just a promise of weather never normal.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2014, Ranch Journal
Tagged Blue Oak, cows, Drought, feeding, Greasy Creek, Hay, Live Oak, photographs, poetry, rain, water, weather, wildlife
A man builds a house around a fire,
rocks and hearth upon the earth—
cuts wood to feed it, to stand close
to the flame when cold to the bone—
a luxury: he gets in touch
with the basics, with the tree.
Sometimes he says a little prayer
for the century felled or fallen,
or nods to hardwood cores intact
all his long life, stacking brush
for quail, cleaning up for grass
and cattle, like we’ve never been here.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2014
Tagged Blue Oak, Dry Creek, firewood, photographs, poetry, wildlife
She knows her wood
and how long it will last—
loves Blue Oak coals
and the Live Oak with little ash.
Redwood splinters for an ember,
Manzanita for heat and flame,
she keeps a never-ending fire
three months warm each year.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2014
Tagged Blue Oak, Calves, firewood, Paregien Ranch, photographs, poetry, wood stove
Not many leaves, but
hanging on to the tops
of mountains no one sees.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2014
Tagged Blue Oak, Drought, haiku, Paregien Ranch, photographs, poetry, water, weather
Not many left who care
to see the dance, a flash
of flesh beneath her leaves,
she teases him when he’s not
watching hawks and deer—
well before you ever get there.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2014
Tagged Blue Oak, Bush Monkeyflowers, Greasy Creek, Manzanita, photographs, poetry, wildflowers
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