Tag Archives: photography

IN THE COMPANY OF COWS

 

It’s a dirty trick

not to bring ‘hello hay’

by flake or bale,

 

to show empty-handed

with a cluttered mind

from another world.

 

If I had the time

I’d stay the day among them,

forget myself

 

and lie down and learn

to chew my cud

without thinking.

 

ON THE MARCH

We train our young replacement heifers to be gentle and to follow the Kubota or feed truck when we feed so when they go up the hill in the next year or two, we can gather them and their calves easily.  Having been through the same process, their mothers and grandmothers have imprinted this same calmness on their calves.

Due to the atmospheric rivers, we were unable to see our cattle for 3 months, but the calves gentled down quickly in the weaning pen on alfalfa hay.  Now weaned about 30 days, they’ve been turned out along the creek on native feed and a little extra green due to the spring rains.  We’ve been supplementing them once-a -week. While I was photographing the floods’ ensuing boulder fields and patches of cockleburs, they heard the Kubota and followed me, on the march, towards the feed ground, hoping it was the right day.

ACORNS

   

            One by one off trucks,

            hooked or boomed into the barn

            banked for the unknown.

 

Sweaty, sleeveless shirt, Dusty

Bohannon, until he died, unloaded

thousands of bob-tailed trucks

 

before the booms pitched bales inside,

before the squeezes stacked dumps up

for unknown winter times

 

like grounded vermin store

in tunneled chambers, or cackling birds

in fenceposts pecked with holes.

 

AFTER ATMOSPHERIC RIVERS

 

The magic remains along the creek

spread wide with naked cobbles pressed

together, exposed by flooding sheets

 

that ripped its sandy banks before

leaving the channel changed—

a landscape rearranged for the moment!

 

A summer gurgle, herons and egrets come

to wade abandoned pools of pollywogs

shrinking into moss-covered gravel.

 

Green cockleburs rise-up from ribbons

of sand, high-water veins bleached white

until colored or carried away with the burrs.

 

The truth is endless here—it will keep

saying the same thing in different ways

well after we are gone.

 

BREAKFAST WITH HEIFERS

 

Third day wean

when hungry heifers

eat out of my hands

at the feed bunk—

 

leafy alfalfa flakes

that fall apart, the rich

green of last year’s

high-dollar hay—

 

rather than distress

over mothers no longer 

posted at the gate

that most have left

 

lamenting another loss

of nine-month intimacy

and their mother-daughter

companionship.

 

Weaning Steers

 

I think we’ve finally caught up and close to being on time with our ranch work since the last Atmospheric River at the end of March.  We got across the creek towards the end of April when flow was down to 90 cfs to see our cows while trying to get our fences up to hold them when we gathered and weaned.  Since the ARs, Dry Creek is spider-webbed with streams of sand in new high-water channels requiring some leveling with the skid steer to replace fencing and to approach the creek.  Meanwhile on this side of the road and creek, we’ve had a crew building fence to better accommodate the acreage changes since Robbin and I have scaled down our activities.

 

But on time, our first bunch of calves will be weaned and ready for Visalia Livestock Market’s “Off the Grass Sale” on Wednesday, May 17th.  They are 7-weight Vintage-sired steers.  The market has been strong, though slightly weaker  lately.  With our cow numbers down due to acreage changes and past years of drought, we will need whatever extra money the market will offer us.

 

After seven days a week for nearly two months, it’s a relief to feel caught up.

 

Atmospheric River Repairs

The grass has turned while we’ve been busy repairing our fences in order to sort and ship our calves to town. Because the brush catchers upstream failed to hold all the debris, our pipe fence across the high water channels when the creek was flowing 8,000 cfs (cubic feet/second) collected what leaked by until it was overwhelmed.

It’s been a slow process, but neighbors and friends brought their hydraulic muscle to stand it upright Sunday morning in a couple of hours.  We had to cut it in sections and finished welding them together yesterday.  

Thanks to all concerned.

Crossing the Creek

We haven’t been able to cross Dry Creek for three months due to the series of Atmospheric Rivers that began last December. Subsequently, Robbin and I haven’t seen the cattle for three months.

Fortunately, we had a dozer nearby to spread the cobble and sand bar evenly across the channel.

Salt hungry, they’ve been doing fine without us.  We were quite pleased with both cows and calves.

THEY COME TO ME (aka “WILD OATS”)

Top: Jim Wells, Leroy Whitney, Scott Erickson. Middle: Jack Erickson, Kyle Loveall, Gary Davis, Jr., Forrest Homer, Mehrten Homer, E. J. Britten, Earl McKee, Jr. Bottom: Clarence Holdbrooks, John Dofflemyer, Craig Thorn III.

 

Ever so gentle, these waves of wild oats—

easy undulations into the wide swath

of bright-yellow White Mustard

 

in the disturbed ground

where we fed bulls

drought after drought.

 

If ever I could reinvent myself

as easily with storm after storm,

shake the slow walk and run

 

with breath aplenty, mind sharp.

Hazy days of snapshots flashing

uninvited or young among old men

 

now gone in the photograph

of the branding crew Rochelle took

when Craig was still alive

 

hanging on the bathroom wall

with south slopes of pure gold,

wet spring after the Drought of 1977.

 

Ever so gentle, these waves of memory,

stories only searching names,

ever so gentle, they come to me.

 

 

 

WINTER PASSION

 

 

No spring chicken, she’s let herself go

wild after a decade of waterless summers

as if saving up the emptiness to fill at once—

 

every wrinkle in these hills oozing rivulets

into foaming cappuccino creeks cresting

towards runaway rivers spilling, flooding

 

valley towns and farm ground with lakes

and bogs—all the years of prayers answered

with much more passion than we wanted.