A little rain,
a little green,
a little cold
short of a December freeze
my girls dress
in fiery colors
along the creek trickling
before winter’s strip-tease:
long limbs reaching
from the clothes at their feet.
Some trees have drunk
more than they can hold,
dropping limbs on fences—
but nimble and sylphlike,
they have shown a millennium
a glimpse of sensual grace.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2024, poetry, Ranch Journal
Your robe’s frozen sleeve
reaches the creek once again,
my unending friend,
you carry both storm
and heaven on your shoulders
when I reflect up—
face unwavering
beneath sun and starlit night
always in the morning.
______________________________________
It’s been interesting weather, now half-way through our rainy season, over 18 inches of rain after a decade of drought. Already whispers from the loudest drought complainers for relief as these hills leak crystal rivulets again.
We lost a month in time in January to the Atmospheric River during branding season, and now with nearly 3 inches in the past 3 days and 3 inches more forecast for the next three, it will be at least a week before we can get to our upper country to brand the last bunch, putting us close to the middle of March. These calves will be big, a handful.
The Paregien Ranch ranges from 2,000 to 2,600 with its own light blanket of snow now, time-released moisture soaking into the clay and granite ground that leaks down the smooth rock waterfalls of Ridenhour Canyon, adding to Dry Creek that peaked at 684 cfs last night, that probably washed out some of our watergaps replaced after January’s peak flow over 3,500 cfs.
Job security, but patience until we can get there—you can’t fight Mother Nature, just try to adapt and face the consequences—fully enjoy her luxuriant and persistent presence after so much needed moisture.
Posted in Haiku 2023, Photographs, POEMS 2023, Ranch Journal
Tagged branding, Drought, Dry Creek, grass, green, haiku, Mother Nature, Paregien, patience, photography, poetry, rain, snow, Sulphur Peak, 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 dark hole in the barn
that once was leafy, fine-stemmed alfalfa
for six-months feeding, rides on a rain
as wildflowers get ahead of the green
making color, making seed—a spectacle
that will eclipse the hopes and dreams
that drew us to this tipping point in time.
Seems we’re always on the cusp of perfect
storms, praying for enough that we might
meld into the wealth of these steep slopes
we belong to, marvel at the cattle
and forget about the money and the market
for a moment as we and our old neighbors
hold invisible hands and hobble around
the maypole to appease our pagan genes.
There were no wild turkeys here
when we were boys—no Great Egrets either
mimicking Blue Herons
statuesque in the pasture
waiting for the earth to move
a varmint cleaning house after rain.
Scattered atop the ridges,
we haven’t seen the cows and calves
in weeks, the young bulls longer
through December rains.
They don’t need us now,
they don’t need hay.
Lifeline of the canyon, the creek
arrived on Christmas Eve
running muddy, coloring the river
with streaks of chocolate
under the new bridge
it took years to finish.
And when the Tule fog
leaps and claws up canyon
like a lion to wrap us in a gray
cocoon that shuts the world away,
there’s nothing to do but wait
until the sun burns it off.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2022
Tagged creek, grass, Great Egrets, green, rain, Tule fog, wild turkeys
Long dark shadows in the canyons,
cattle hard to see. They don’t need us now,
heads down somewhere on the mountain,
ground too wet to help them anyway—
all the excuses I need to write poetry.
We fed hay all last year, filled the barn
three times waiting for a rain. These Christmas
storms: miracles to rejuvenate the earth
for man and beast, birds and insects,
steep hillsides begging to explode in leafy
salad greens—iridescent gifts in the sunlight,
like the old days, for years in a row that
have since gone dry and farther in between.
Nothing stays the same, just ask the skeletons
of old oaks where the natives ground acorns.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2021, Ranch Journal
Tagged cattle, Christmas, Drought, grass, Natives, New Year's, oak skeletons, poetry, rain
2.16” of rain the past two days and snow down to about 2,000 feet yesterday have been a game changer for Robbin and me. So long dry, it’s not been easy to think in any other terms than drought, but we’re getting there as the south and west slopes fill in with green. Forecast for more rain on the way through Christmas.
Gray silver rain,
burnished coins
upon the green—
first leaves of filaree
like faces waiting,
hands open expectantly.
The ground sighs
just in time and we,
with wood stacked,
breathe freely now
as cows down from ridgetops
collect babies waiting
for breakfast
and old enough to listen
for their mother’s voice.
She slipped easily away
under clouds like these.
I hear phrases now—
her knowing
and all her demons
haunt me delightfully,
words that fit
and suddenly
become my own.
She would be pleased for us,
gray silver rain
upon the green.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2021, Ranch Journal
Despite the welcome 1.5” of rain this month, bringing our total rainfall for the season on Dry Creek to a meager 6”, our grass is short and thin, especially on the south and west slopes of our lower foothill country. Unless we get some well-spaced rains in April, we will wean our calves early, probably weighing 50 lbs. lighter than usual. With limited stockwater and no dry feed to carry our cows through summer, fall and to an unknown beginning of our rainy season, we will have cull our cow herd deeply. A strong high pressure ridge, typical of La Niña, is blocking storm activity to California and the rest of the West. Furthermore, market returns for cattle producers are stuck in an unsustainable range, in part due to Covid-19.
After a wonderfully fun day helping Kenny and Virginia McKee brand their calves in Woolley Canyon yesterday, Robbin and I are moving slowly as we recuperate by enjoying the colors of spring in the gathering fields around us. The lush appearance of the Fiddleneck and Popcorn Flowers in the photo below is deceptive as they have little nutritional value for cattle, but they do shade the ground and help hold what moisture we have.
Another round of Blue Oak
from the limb droughts have cured
to fall with a crash in the yard—
after the calves were marked
and friends were fed and gone,
you and I and a bottle of wine
before the fire we cooked upon
waiting for the pillowed clouds
to collect and turn dark gray—
our forecast rain. Tough filaree
looks like the dirt it’s hanging on,
leaves red and brown and in between—
last chance for feed this spring.
One wonders why we do this
to become the grass we need.
drycrikjournal 