The earth sinks at the middle spring,
at the fairly flat and brushy head
of Ridenhour Canyon, huge Blue Oaks
and gooseberries covering forgotten
gossip rocks. I think of Effie riding
her white horse, string of ‘wolves’
beside her cattle following at a walk—
me on the Kubota, salt and mineral,
backtracking for my lost hay hook hung
on the flatbed rail to disengage Spencer’s
trailer backed beneath the pickup hitch
to transfer bales he borrowed for
his daughter’s party—lighter trailer rising
as the loaded feed truck bears down.
Gulf War veteran, he’s had a key since
he was sixteen, goes where he wants,
grins with canine teeth as he talks coyotes,
calls them in for instant death. A silhouette
at rest in the shade of gray chemise,
the bunch behind me, rises in my scope.
Mangy old dog down, forever relieved.
As they regard him crossways in their track,
a tall Brangus turns to search the manzanita,
ears flicking, another leaving I never see
though I comb hillsides clear to the corrals.
Ahead, bawling cows tuck two more tails, chase
chuckling tongues over year-old shoulders.
One down, but one slips off before I head to
Effie’s cabin, cows and calves come to salt,
hope for hay, survey and study another
nosing leaves beneath an oak on Wuknaw ridge,
animals’ rock circle—Yokuts Creation Place.
Three for three, cow dogs living with cattle,
waiting for the mother of the latest calf
to go to water. Haven’t found my hay hook, yet.
drycrikjournal 