Tag Archives: Paregien Ranch

TWO COWS

 

20160411-a40a0647

 

                    The clouds you ride are tissue-paper thin.
                         – Red Shuttleworth (“If You Had a Tail Fins Caddy”)

High on the mountain, two isolated cows surprised
graze thick fog without wet bags, act guilty found
in one another’s company before their inevitable trip

to town when we gather, the price of truancy
they seem to know or hear through my eyes
and the mist between us, or pure imagination

that blooms personified from my disappointment.
A little too content to be on vacation from maternity
and needy nurseries, the mother in me understands.

Up here, the footing is treacherous, each tentative step
measured against all the break-through, downhill
possibilities—up here the poems hang in oak trees.

 

DOES-IN-WAITING

 

20161105-a40a2388

 

Hide-outs saved for sane
discussions, always listening
between short sentences

for advances within the dry
and brittle skeletons of spring—
we could forever be nervous

deer on the rebound, come back
to ricochet within a shrinking
wild that we have helped consume.

On the outskirts, perhaps
we feel it now approaching, wind
the scent of human arrogance

surrounding us, that we succumb to
out of necessity knowing
we’re headed in the wrong direction.

 

UNTAMED SILENCE

 

20161105-a40a2342

 

Heading into winter, black cows yet fat
sucking calves—damp, thick-piled green after rain—
everyone is clean and shiny off the hill, parading
to water early to laze in the shade. Pages

of poetry shuffle across a desk messy with business,
an untitled collection scattered and spread,
collected and clipped faraway in my head
from our family of cows, from short remarks:

our song of words and phrases overflowing
with the water troughs at Windmill Spring,
spilling too spontaneously to require editing.
We needed to collaborate, to escape the loud

and demanding devils too close to home.
In this place, we are blessed with native eyes
and forgotten tongues—where we can relate
long poems in the luxury of untamed silence.

 

Turning Green

 

20161105-a40a2383

 

As recollections fade, I’m careful not to claim the recent as the biggest or the best of anything, but this past week’s germination of grass is as thick as any I can recall. How well it will endure the above-average temperatures predicted to push 80 degrees for the next ten days remains to be seen—no rain in sight.

Yesterday, Robbin and I made the Kubota trip to the Paregien Ranch with salt, mineral and the last protein lick until next summer while checking the cows, calves, and the rain gauge: 1.44”. More like spring than fall, our new green grass, even at a higher elevation of 2,200 feet, has begun to usurp our ample old feed. Cow numbers light due to the heavy culling during the drought, we haven’t had to supplement these cows with alfalfa yet this year—a good thing. It will take two or three ‘normal’ seasons before we get our cow numbers close to a sustainable capacity again, unwilling to buy non-native cows that take at least two years to finally acclimate to this ranch and cycle regularly.

Checking cattle once a week, the Kubota has become so familiar on the Paregien Ranch that wildlife are seldom startled. With tall feed and cover, we haven’t seen many deer in the past six months. It was reassuring to see that the Blacktail buck above had survived hunting season, now in rut and somewhat oblivious to our presence. With a doe and fawn grazing acorns, he was more content to rest in the shade than leave.

Early mornings cool and talking firewood earlier in the week, we came off the hill with a load of dry Manzanita.

 

EQUINOX 2016

 

Terri Drewry photo

Terri Drewry photo

 

Long shadows on blond feed tall,
standing skeletons of oaks from drought,
the gray cow caught talking with an iPhone
to her new, silver-belly calf.

No audio, too far to catch the vocabulary
lesson, the inflection of each murmur
into song, the guttural beginnings of all words—
a universal language of basic sounds

with deep meanings that defy time
and cultures, that survive the latest plague
of progress and the genius of science—
no better teacher than a mother cow.

 

WITHOUT THE DRY

 

20160219-IMG_5629

 

How many years have I
to wait for spring’s deep green,
the damp and dew, tender cotyledons

fresh as nested bird beaks open
drinking sun before they rise
in waves upon a breeze—

and flowers, like bright paint spilled
upon them. Ubiquitous Fiddleneck,
molten brass between the oak trees,

white skiffs of popcorn flowers,
splashes of red wine mallow,
the purple haze of lupine

and wild onion to rise like steam
on the horizons, colonies of poppies
in pockets out of reach to burn

like wildfire blind the eye
at a distance. The pale and delicate
families of Pretty Faces pose

for photographs, petals and stamen
of pink and purple mountain garland
twist in ecstasy before they fade.

Younger, I yearned for everlasting
spring, something almost heavenly—
yet nothing without the dry.

 

Enveloped by Fog — January 5, 2010

 

IMG_2340

 

No day to gather
cattle in a sea of fog—
just wait by the fire.

 

 

WPC(2) — “enveloped”

 

FEAST IN THE FIDDLENECK

 

IMG_2828

 

Beneath the blankets
of fuzzy bloom, arms and legs
serve dinner for two.

 

 

560’s DAUGHTER

 

IMG_3037

 

Slick-eared,
she went ungathered,
missed the party,

missed the branding
ropes and vaccinations—
they wear the same look.

Not wild-eyed, but
about half-guilty,
half-sad they didn’t

RSVP. Still a chance
she’ll make the cowherd
like her mother.

 

LIKE CATTLE

February 15, 2015

February 15, 2015

 

                         the green growth the mind takes
                         from the pastures in March;

                              – Wendell Berry (“Goods”)

Like cattle filling bellies
becoming whole to bloom,
resting early in the shade of limbs
awaiting leaves, the pastures pulse
with goodness for as far as I can see.

How spring seemed so much longer
when I was a boy, the world wider
as the hills came alive, breathing
easily as apparitions danced
upon the green between rains.

And it becomes us to overwhelm
all else—renewed proof and hope
for mankind—pattern and possibility
yet on this earth that we absorb
like grass. And we feed upon it.