Tag Archives: photographs

Wagyu X Branding 2015

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Maggie Loverin checks her pork loins adorned with grapefruit and oranges after we branded our Wagyu X calves yesterday, while the sun tried to break through the bad-air haze and remnants of Valley fog.

Noticeably quicker and more unpredictable to rope than our Angus calves, the Wagyu are a challenge to head and heel, real work for everyone. But we had a great day and ate well!

Well into our branding season now, we’re beginning to wear down a little, especially with the extra weight of wondering and worrying when it’s going to rain, repercussions of the drought still raw. One topic of conversation in the branding pen included the different kinds of bloat, fairly rare to most of us, but taking casualties in Antelope Valley, half-mile west of here.

All that methane gas that can’t escape inflates the cow and kills her usually leaving an orphan calf—a slurry of foamy gas in the cow’s rumen that can’t be released with an external needle or tube down her throat was news to us, that has come from our lush and washy feed in certain places on the flat ground, mostly filaree. We’ve had several of our cows blow up and subside on their own with a regular supplement of dry hay. There are also commercial free-choice products to prevent bloat that take time to incorporate into the cow’s system, but without assurance that everyone gets some.

How long this situation will last is unknown, but we know a rain would change things. With no likelihood for the rest of the month from any weather-predicting source, we get the work done in love with what we do.

 

IN A FOG

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But traces in quiet fog:
ridgeline of the barn roof,
cold parts of the corral

float in and out of gray
closing in upon our fire—
forms of horses look

for hazy movement
in this fuzzy moment
shut away from hills

and towns beyond, the world
and its miseries. All
we have accomplished near

at hand, close to fading
into nothingness
and I am relieved

of the weight of urgency—
perfectly helpless
to change a thing.

 

FINDING ORDINARY

 

© 2013 Earl McKee Photo

© 2013 Earl McKee Photo

 

Old men in the branding pen
hope for grace

to find the feel of singing loop
slide between their fingers—

of hoof dance timed and shaped
to catch two feet, slack to dally horn

come tight, as if it were nothing
out of the ordinary.

 

ECHINOPSIS AT DAWN

 

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Not a shadow without light,
brief morning flowers
from the blackest night.

 

 

WPC(2) — “Shadowed”

 

GLOAMING

 

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Lifting our eyes to Sulphur Peak,
long days hurry
into poetry.

 

 

WPC(1) — “Shadowed”

 

Pretty Face (Golden Brodiaea) Triteleia ixioides

 

May 2, 2012

May 2, 2012

 

Arms open—
none happier in May
to flower, fold and fade away.

 

 

PILLOWED CLOUDS

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I used to think that inside the deep heart
of the world gone wild, that we all wanted,
craved, needed, or would acquiesce to,

                         a yet to be identified
                         common soul:
                         a ‘peace and love’ tranquility
                         where we all got along
                         with our dreams—

a musical, moaning chorus of ‘oohs’ and ‘ahs’
that kept us busy feeling fine as frog hair,
trying harder to make life better for everyone.

But how could heaven’s everlasting light
be so great without a dark side, without the moon
rising in new places dressed in different phases
behind the skeletons of oak and tops of pine?

                         Rain and storm for free.
                         Life from dust, the miracle
                         of green reaching up
                         to seed itself
                         against adversity

should be enough to brave the skullduggery
of all the power-hungry opportunists that slink
and lurk in the shadows. And what of poetry
rooted in the illusion of pillowed clouds?

 

Wordless Wednesday — Grass-Starved

 

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SABBATH HOME

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1.
After the flood of holiday cheer
and four black and frosty mornings
into the New Year, I have lost track
of the names of days

                        celebrating work:
                        friends gathered,
                        calves branded,
                        meat fired

                        and bottles emptied—
                        the hugs and handshakes
                        of neighbors, persistent
                        habits etched deeper

                        in the hard ground
                        worn around our eyes—
                        deeper yet into souls,
                        our pupils as pinholes

                        to grand landscapes
                        either side, missed
                        by the migratory headed
                        somewhere up the road.
 

2.
We live within a dot on the map,
a speck of dust on a spinning globe
in space and time without end,

holding firm to our moment,
looking back and ahead at once:
no finish line in sight.
 

3.
We pace our plodding, take all week
to get the work done, to savor details
of small accomplishment in a hazy

scheme of keeping track of seasons
shaped by rain, or lack of it—
our spiritual sustenance comes

with the crescendo of storms
we pray for, almost everyday, keeping
busy while we wait for an answer.
 

4.
In the winter, we invest in the future
measured by firewood stacked outside
the door, like last year’s crop of acorns
stored by natives, wild and domestic,

we are prepared in this place
to loose track of days scattered
like native cattle into strays
chasing the good grass back home.

 

COLD MORNING

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I find my friend hunting
on my way to cut wood
for a branding fire.