Tag Archives: Calves

EARLY ON

Once they get their legs to travel
and explore apart from mother,
left at the babysitter’s with fresh

calf licked clean asleep, they center
at the water trough waiting for the udder
off grazing to return. Every morning’s

‘buck and run’, opposing blind sprints
before they learn how to stop
only to circle back to where they began.

Always the stealer, head marked with manure,
waiting for the young cow’s calf to suck
before approaching from the rear—

a dance of patience and insistence
in a great green ballroom that becomes them—
it takes a herd to raise a calf.

AFTER RAIN

Short of a half-inch of rain, on the cusp of our first northern storm, we’ve been calving for 30 days now and feeding these first and second-calf heifers until the green grass comes. The cows leave their calves in nurseries, though some are old enough to eat hay.

But like children of any age bunched-up and left alone, they look like they’re headed for trouble. Robbin caught their hillarious high jinks while mama’s not looking in the following video.

A great time of year!

MARCH HAIKU

On top of the world
the fat calves are curious—
nothing else to do.

MATERNITY


Dilated and making bag,
first-calf heifers choose to graze,
closer to our familiar voices

over morning coffee. Perhaps security,
or our loving pride they feel
long distance as we imagine

a pasture full of calves clinging
to a mother’s shadow, the buck and run
as they get older like the thirty years

before them. We begin another season
of grass with rain, with feeding hay
ready to face the future with them.

Crossing the Creek

We haven’t been able to cross Dry Creek for three months due to the series of Atmospheric Rivers that began last December. Subsequently, Robbin and I haven’t seen the cattle for three months.

Fortunately, we had a dozer nearby to spread the cobble and sand bar evenly across the channel.

Salt hungry, they’ve been doing fine without us.  We were quite pleased with both cows and calves.

BFORE THE RAIN

 

The cows know the way

following the idling sounds

of the diesel hay truck

 

to the feed grounds just beyond

the glacial slab of granite

honeycombed with grinding holes

 

of another era

when 300 Natives

made a living in this canyon.

 

After the flood

they moved the road

away from the creek in ’69—

 

exposing human bones.

The cast iron well head

for the red brick slaughterhouse

 

stands like a gravestone

among dead oak limbs—for

a time between then and now.

 

A cow turns back to attend to her calf

swallowing dust, another murmurs

trust that there will be hay.

 

*          *           *          *

 

0.28″

 

ON BARE ACRES

 

 

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.

 

NATIVE CATTLE

 

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.

 

HALLOWEEN

Dark morning chill stirs the flesh
to welcome winter waiting
for flaming tongues 
to lick between
dry Manzanita branches
igniting Blue oak 
in the woodstove’s glow.
 
I recall storms, the floods
and endless downpours,
creek too high to cross
for thirty days and pray
for anything wet enough
to start the grass
for cows and calves—
 
for my sanity, something
akin to normal
in these crazy days
of politics and pandemic—
something to trust 
as right as rain—
something to believe in.

THE COUNT

It’s an art
countin’ cattle,
‘specially calves—
it takes concentration
to keep a mind closed
to everything else
and get the same answer
twice.
 
Dad maintained
that the simpler the mind
the more dependable
the count—
the only excuse
I’ve got.