The sycamores are pushing leaves against green hillsides along the creek— thin clouds smeared upon blue seas above fresh snow upstream, and we
old timers wait for the wildflowers we remember, their names and faces begging for a moment in the sun far from the news in Washington.
Thank God it finally rained after months of fog, the only moisture to keep the grass alive, and only now does it start to grow after the frost and freezing mornings
that make strong feed. You can see it piled behind the heifers, instead of puddles, licking themselves as if their coats were combed with gobs of Brylcreem.
It’s the little things that tell the story I’m looking for—Baby Blue Eyes, Mariposa Lillies and Pretty Faces to greet me spring mornings.
Sunday morning’s horoscope suggests why not write some poetry planets aligned for me to be feeling especially inspired or artistic and I try, despite the broken tooth too short to extract with vice grips, crumbling, throbbing with coffee.
Devastation at the distant feral cat’s food down at the shop, a raccoon, I suspect, stuck in the small door cut in its thirty-gallon cover. I envision the coon panicked, flipping over— kibble scattered like gravel, empty dishes upside down, secret humor as I reclaim the mess.
And the weeds we sprayed yesterday from the welcome rains that washed-out all the fences across the creek between neighbors, their cattle headed south, tentatively exploring our empty pasture across from the house.
Dark shadows shrink upon the green, a picturesque pre-spring day in-the-making. I sip cold coffee and wait.
Lots of commentary on the cattle business lately with a focus on the price of beef. But relative to inflation, $20 will buy a cheeseburger, fries and a soda or a USDA Choice New York steak at Costco. What a deal!
Our 4-year drought (2012-2016) doesn’t seem that long ago when we had to cull some older bred cows for slaughter in order to feed the rest of our herd expensive hay. A good part of the reason why producing cow numbers are at a 75 year low. Though the media has its red meat theories, nobody mentions that the US population has more than doubled since 1951. This is simple to understand: supply and demand.
KEEPING SECRETS
How do they know, these old fat cows that read a baggy sadness in my walk among them checking irons as they pull
alfalfa stems apart to tongue green leaf in the corral? The gates are set, waiting for the truck to town. There is nothing
right about the moment, that they know— little consolation in my voice, they eye me suspiciously searching for details
in my muted gestures. If I told them all I know of town, of auction rings and rails, they would all revolt
for the brushy hills, lay fences down to take their chances without water through the summer—that I know.
-JCD (“Best of the Dry Years, 2012-2016”)
The three variables for the cattle business are weather, price and politics, any one which can reduce our once-a-year paycheck to a loss, but two or more can be an economic disaster—none of which have we, nor the government, any control over.
In the photo above, Robbin and I fed a few replacement heifers before the forecast Atmospheric River. The grass geminated last month has become short and spotty and we have to keep them in shape to cycle and breed when we turn the bulls out in two weeks—just part of the business.
I wake with the dream after telling Earl how many cattle of his I saw, ten to twenty cows at a distance in and out of the brush, chemise and manzanita peeling flies off their backs while grazing new green under their protection—
part of a flat mountain pasture claiming space between the rocky slopes of Live Oak with a good spring hidden from mortal eyes— a perfect place for heaven, for the cows and calves I spied that we agreed to gather this morning.
They didn’t seem shy, didn’t lift their heads to see me on the ridge trying to get a count while searching for an overgrown way out as they moved slowly, one step at a time, each leg waiting its turn towards taller grass.
But which horse that has died am I too old to ride, though Earl is young and ready without a plan for the adventure? Panicked, what am I to do? I roll awake relieved from dark saddling, overjoyed to have connected with my neighbor and foster father.
It’s that time of year when the cows begin calving, and these two girls were in the bottom of a Ridenhour Canyon when Allie, her sister Katie and the two 1 year-old boys, Asher and Hayes, passed by on the way to check water in Paregien’s. Robbin and I have been checking the first and second calf heifers after they’re fed… and yes, we’re feeding hay too, having just increased the amount to keep up their strength before they calve. We have a few on the ground already, coyotes thick as fleas on a ground squirrel. It’s always exciting, and sometimes disappointing when you lose one.
Naturally, we love this time of year, especially now that the temperature is running in the 90s. It’s our beginning of the year.
As we’ve done every year, we’re recording our first calf of the season here to substantiate of our Age and Source verification for the USDA. Tag # 3362 is now a second calf heifer.
I’ve let the blog slip by with little or no posts lately while I’ve been working on a new collection of poetry, “Native Harmonies; ranch poems”. It’s been a stop and go project for the past year that I’ve pared down to about 90 poems now. Sean Sexton offered one of his paintings that he exhibited at 2025 National Poetry Gathering in Elko for the cover. Here’s my mock up:
It’s been a mild summer as the days are now getting shorter and cooler. Big Wind last week had me moving vehicles out from under trees, gale force winds Saturday while Phoenix was also getting blown away. Influenced by monsoon activity, August is our month for thunderstorms, lightning and wildfires. Looking forward to fall, and a chance for rain.
drycrikjournal 