A water trough
leveled for a float
with a puddle
at the bottom
resembles our aquifer
thousands of feet below
the tax write-offs
of corporate farming,
as the ground collapses
to take the water’s place
deposited before man
walked this earth,
before we were so many
thirsty inhabitants
pumping for more
until the trough is empty.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2026, poetry, Ranch Journal
Tagged photography, poetry, water
Quiet and still, nothing on the narrow road
before dawn, the birds are sleeping in
on your birthday, hills genuflecting
where heifers graze the dry creek bed,
a moment frozen from our beginning
before the barns, fences and a herd of cows
to be proud of. How we howled in the dark
through the open window, challenged the coyotes,
let the empty canyon know we were here to stay.
All these years on your birthday, too busy
to count them, too busy to care,
too happy to have it any other way.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2026, poetry, Ranch Journal
Tagged birthday, history, photography, place, poetry, Robbin
Rain nine days away, they say—those prognosticators.
95 degrees third week in March after a month of dry
as the grass on south and west sloping faces
goes to seed next year’s grazing—or so we hope.
Lifetime wagers on the weather,
and gambles on the market for hay and cattle,
we pray that politicians don’t impede our subsistence
to garner more attention—control and votes like always.
We are the pawns in this equation, farmers, shepherds
of this world, tracing dawns along the ridgelines
chasing seasons for generations—filling empty plates
with much more than what most people see.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2026, poetry, Ranch Journal
Tagged cattle, farmers, government, markets, photography, poetry, shepherds, weather
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.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2026, poetry, Ranch Journal
Tagged heifers, photography, poetry, strong feed, wildflowers
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.
Posted in Poems 2026, poetry, Ranch Journal
Tagged astrology, catfood, everyday, photography, poetry, raccoon, rain, watergaps, weedspray
IGNITION
The hillside Blue Oaks beneath the fog
round as mushrooms upon December green,
darkened mounds that have survived
the seasons for centuries speaking
what I can’t translate, yet admire above
the sycamores that hem the creek
as they catch fire—flaming colors
on the thirteenth successive day of fog
warm heart and mind despite the gray.
****
MURMURATION
The starlings swarm like bees,
murmuration, hundreds synchronized
in flight by unspoken cues to flare
and light en masse to peck and graze
the green, before that cerebral notion rises
into the sky with a synchronized dance.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2025, Ranch Journal
Tagged Blue Oaks, fog, photography, poetry, starlings, sycamores, weather
The day has come to plant the seed,
these youngsters knowing nothing
of one another, of propagation,
or the nine months before
she becomes a mother
nosing and nursing her first calf—
deep-rooted instinct drives them.
A dead-beat dad, he moves on
to practice what he’s learned,
to keep track of all the girls
he sorts by name and nature,
always ready to go to work
or play like people we know
from the Internet news,
or some a bit closer to home.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2025, Ranch Journal
Tagged breeding, bulls, heifers, photography, poetry
Granite outcrops clean,
lichen islands
ignite in flames,
November’s sunset
after a good long rain—
gray back to green,
both slopes and flats—
creek stalled
a mile upcanyon,
black dots
of cows and calves
grazing ridgetops.
Glistening tree bough
drops diamonds glistening,
raining rain.
There is more to heaven,
I suppose, a giving-up
of tarnished flesh
and character,
collected wisdom
won the hard way
for eternity—
this canyon green
I’d rather stay.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2025, Ranch Journal
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.
As I write, it’s been raining overnight.
Posted in Photographs, poetry, Ranch Journal
Tagged beef, Drought, Dry Creek, photography, poetry, politics, rain, red meat, water, weather
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