I am amused with the new vocabulary of weathermen like “hydroclimate whiplash” during the atmospheric rivers a couple of years ago. I just read a new one, we’re on day 21 of our “tule stratus” as we head to Paregien’s to gather for Wednesday’s branding where hopefully we’ll be above the fog.
In the canyon
fog descending at dusk,
a gray blanket tucks us in
along the creek’s flaming sycamores
and silent trickle.
Wrapped in a cold cocoon,
insulated from the dreadful dramas
of an outside world,
we rest easily in the dark
with a taste of peace.
Cold and damp, we wake to add split oak
to coals banked in the woodstove
and wait for dawn’s dim light to see
how thick the fog that has consumed us
for weeks—and the cows and calves
we must gather before we brand,
before the rains leave dirt tracks
too slick to travel up the mountain—
bull calves to sell instead of steers for less.
An ocean of fog with islands of green,
a world below where commerce
and consumption carry-on conveniently,
where pundits and politicians spar
for the last word, and the weathermen
guess what Nature has left to teach us.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2025, poetry, Ranch Journal
Tagged branding, cattle, fog, nature, rain, weather, weathermen
How nice it was to see the sun above the fog topping out at 1,800 feet, temperature in the high 70s. Down on Dry Creek this a.m. it was 35 degrees.
We went up to the Paregien Ranch to make some repairs to the corrals and cut some dead trees out of our dirt roads and off the fences. The oaks that died during the 2012-2016 drought are really tipping over now. A joy to work in the sunshine before we brand calves next week.
No star or moon light,
nor sun upon my skin
for half-a-month
in a cave of fog,
partly insulated
from the shenanigans
of men at the trough
making laws
making sure
they can still deal
a gourmet meal
on the house:
our planet earth
giving up its wealth
instead of wisdom
for those that listen.
IGNITION
The hillside Blue Oaks beneath the fog
round as mushrooms upon December green,
darkened mounds that have survived
the seasons for centuries speaking
what I can’t translate, yet admire above
the sycamores that hem the creek
as they catch fire—flaming colors
on the thirteenth successive day of fog
warm heart and mind despite the gray.
****
MURMURATION
The starlings swarm like bees,
murmuration, hundreds synchronized
in flight by unspoken cues to flare
and light en masse to peck and graze
the green, before that cerebral notion rises
into the sky with a synchronized dance.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2025, Ranch Journal
Tagged Blue Oaks, fog, photography, poetry, starlings, sycamores, weather
It hasn’t come “on little cat’s feet” (Carl Sandburg), instead a blanket hanging for 10 days straight, a “radiation fog” as it’s now named, 44 degrees high yesterday, 38 degrees this a.m.
Of course, nothing compared to the snow storms elsewhere, but our grass needs sunshine. Other places in the San Joaquin Valley have experienced zero visibility, and often here the low lying fog spills over the ridge clear down to the creek. Perhaps tomorrow we’ll get some sun.
Light rain like fog
gray in the canyon
closes the world away—
privacy to contemplate
the prolonged moment
that asks no questions
of the no one
you have become
among the mountains.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2024, poetry, Ranch Journal
A bower for sleeping bees,
the ground begs softly
beneath the burning trees
to foster cotyledons
and change the canyon green.
No cars on the road,
silence weighs heavily,
not a bird or bull’s bawl
to claim the open space
that’s come alive.
The gray sky witness
floats in a cloud-fog
damp and undemanding
as the long pause of winter
moves into a new beginning.
Posted in Photographs, POEMS 2023, poetry, Ranch Journal
Tagged bees, Dry Creek, fog, photography, poetry, rain, silence, sycamores, weather
Stacked in the valley
and thick as milk gravy,
it spills over the ridge
in slow-rolling waves
eclipsing the daylight
to swallow you up
in cold cottony gray.
Easy to get lost in the fog
when you can’t see
your horse’s wet ears—
find something dry
to start a fire
and wait for it to lift—
or trust he knows
his blind way home.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2022, Ranch Journal
Tagged fog, photography, poetry, Tule fog, weather
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