We begin to gather
all the good news
showered upon us
from the sky,
harvest the grass
in the flesh of calves,
and like every year
we will weigh them,
measure our good fortune
with a number
to judge a season by.
We will turn the cows out
back to grass, back to homes
they’ve made on ground
good for little else
but wildlife—four-month
vacation with the girls
gossiping in the shade
without bulls
or nagging children
to disturb them.
Not a bad life
when it rains.
Hanging with the does
that lick the last alfalfa
leaf behind the cows.
Any day now—soon,
any day, the pundits say
we might wash away.
We dig for water,
bring David and the backhoe’s
hydraulic muscle:
big jaws and steel teeth—
hope and pray to break some loose
to water cattle.
California’s map
in flames, burning inside out
to greet El Niño.
Selected to stay,
to be bred and have babies,
we must give them names.
Posted in Haiku 2015, Photographs, Ranch Journal
Tagged cattle, cows, Replacement Heifers
Surprised, they were glad to see us,
remembered green alfalfa leaf
and came with half-grown children
out of the brush, the canyons,
off ridges to follow
without a thought of escaping.
We are family, know the routine:
dear cowboys and cattle,
me and my machine.
Blankets and leather
rest ready for the gather,
cowdogs in the shade.
Now in the quiet I stand
and look at her a long time, glad
to have recovered what is lost
in the exchange of something for money.
– Wendell Berry (“The Sorrel Filly”)
Looming closer, a swirling darkness just beyond
the thought of summer’s water that is not
frozen deep in the Sierras to feed our rivers
and canyon leaks—of brittle fall and cattle
gathered at an empty trough. The creek dries back
and sinks in March, lifted to new canopies
of sycamores dressing. Skeletons of old oaks
stand out between greening survivors, some
wearing only clumps of yellow mistletoe
hanging like reasons, raisons—like raisins
clinging to a leafless vine. Each season
spins the same dry song, yet we find our place,
harmonize and sing along, lifted like precious
moisture to tender leaves, a basic ascension not
available in the big box stores, unrecorded
in the history of our presence. This may be
the new normal for old people—that daze
of amazement we have been working towards.
Posted in Poems 2015, Ranch Journal
Tagged "The Sorrel Filly", Blue Oak, cattle, Drought, Dry Creek, Kaweah, Kaweah River, poetry, rain, San Joaquin Valley, water, weather, Wendell Berry
Robbin and I went to the Paregien Ranch Sunday to check the cattle, feed, and rain gauge since the storm on the 7th, 8th and 9th. An 1.43″, which was more than anywhere else on the ranch. We’re still trending warm and dry with wildflowers blooming a month earlier than normal, the poppies above and below in Ridenhour Canyon.
Despite the lush look of spring, there is no rain in the forecast for the rest of the month with temperatures in the mid-70s. We’ll be needing another rain soon or it will be a short grass season. Nevertheless, the cattle are doing well, both cows and calves, taking advantage of early and strong feed.
Looking ahead, we shut the cattle out our new gathering field to give the grass a chance to grow before we wean, which is normally in May — but it may be March or April if it doesn’t rain.
Checking on the Windmill Spring, we were greeted enthusiastically by our independent ‘Little Buddy’ who can be seen helping us cut firewood Here and helping me plumb a trough Here before he was branded and tagged in December.
Though it appears that we’re both having a drink, I was blowing on the overflow pipe to unplug it. Of course, our ‘Little Buddy’ was well aware of the hay in the back of the Kubota.
Posted in Photographs, Ranch Journal
Tagged Calves, cattle, cows, Paregien Ranch, photographs, rain, rain gauge, Ridenhour Canyon, water, weather, wildflowers
Between bites, she pauses
to absorb what she sees
clear through you.
We know their fathers
and their mother’s mother.
We send you their children.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2014
Tagged cattle, haiku, Paregien Ranch, photographs, poetry
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