After a decade, we gave-up prayer,
swallowed our appeals to pagan gods
and goddesses that might be listening—
we forgot the feel of tall green feed
wet upon our knees, resigned ourselves
to do without—to adapt to drought.
Wettest December in a century,
but for the floods of ’55 and ’66,
I don’t regret what I wished for.
Posted in Photographs, POEMS 2023, Ranch Journal
Tagged careful what you wish for, December rains, Drought, Dry Creek, floods, photography, poetry, rain, weather
Damp and cold, her breath
slips through the door cracked
to push the smell of smoke
through the house while it rains
lightly. I steal deep breaths,
pretend I’m young again
before I light another.
Though I miss the real storms,
the overbearing trepidation
that escapes its banks to flood
with heroic tales and wonder
when its over, I am now lifted
out of time on her breath,
this gentle rain, hillsides
running green—reborn again.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2022, Ranch Journal
Tagged breath, Drought, photography, poetry, rain, shy goddess, time, weather
It’s quiet now, she’s come and gone
without a sound, spent the night
without a word as we slept
deeply by the fire. She kept it dark
without the stars, hid the pregnant moon
that shed the rain lightly through the clouds.
We don’t know her name, shy goddess—
but we will leave the light on
with pomegranate jelly at the door.
– – – – –
0.63″ plus bugs
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2022, Ranch Journal
Tagged clouds, Drought, moon, photography, poetry, pomegranate jelly, rain, rain gauge, stars, weather
Nothing near, the long-term forecast
changes on the hour as we look out
over Christmas color, out of storage early,
at independent calves at water,
and our persistent green still breathing
with each dawn’s dew. Almost everything
we need is near-at-hand before Thanksgiving
with a welcome splash of cheer
as we wait for rain, like always.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2022, Ranch Journal
Tagged cheer, Christmas, Drought, Dry Creek, forecast, photography, poetry, rain, Thanksgiving, weather
Chain saw heavier, I cut arms
off skeletons littering pastures
and canyons after years of drought,
a battleground where old oaks lost
touch with water—most barkless now
tipped-over or in tangled piles
beneath authoritative trunks
begging purpose, begging cremation
or stacked close to the woodstove.
Old habits and rituals finally slow
as the limbs grow heavier despite
the pleading of the heartwood.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2022, Ranch Journal
Tagged age, cordwood, Drought, habits, oak trees, photography, poetry, rituals, skeletons, woodstove
Color comes with cold and wet
within the canyon, even before
the creek flows or sycamores burn
leather brown to shed their clothes—
white bodies tangled in a pagan dance
to gods unknown. Orioles return
as sparks in the brush, levity
in the pink overcast of dawn.
We glean the fallen skeletons
of oak and brittle manzanita
to fill the woodstove. Curious cattle
come to wonder what we’re about.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2022, Ranch Journal
Tagged cattle, colors, Drought, Dry Creek, Fire, firewood, Manzanita, photography, poetry, rain, sycamores, weather
After a slow three-day rain,
clay dust dark brown and firm,
we think we see a tinge of green
before wet seed has time to burst
with open-handed cotyledons
through the saturated dirt.
Yesterday, on the optometrist’s screen
I see my eyeballs and optic nerves
that anticipate such good fortune:
bare ground, sloping hillsides
carpeted with short green—
a start to change our luck.
for Terence Miller
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2022, Ranch Journal
Tagged cotyledons, Drought, eyes, grass, green, optic nerve, optometrist, photography, poetry, rain, seed, weather
The weather here is queen,
haggard goddess dodging phone calls,
prayers—she gathers storms
like cattle to market
leaving empty pastures bare to cook
for sometimes years—
sometimes centuries displacing
civilizations for archeological
supposition and conjecture.
We cannot know her mind—
she is old and forgetful
and often wanders in a haze.
But when we smell her
approaching on the wind
our dry skin tightens as
we become like reckless children
turned loose to prepare
the fires for her arrival,
be it wrath or cordial,
for she is queen
of eternity.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2022, Ranch Journal
Tagged Drought, Dry Creek, nature, personification, photography, poetry, rain, weather
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″
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2022, Ranch Journal
Tagged Calves, cows, Drought, Dry Creek, dust, feed truck, glacial slab, grinding holes, Natives, photography, poetry, rain, weather
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.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2022, Ranch Journal
Tagged alfalfa hay, Calves, cows, Drought, photography, poetry, weather, weathermen
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