Light dusting this afternoon down to 2,500′ on Dry Creek. Exceeding the forecast, just shy of an inch of rain overnight and this morning. It’s wet out there.
Light dusting this afternoon down to 2,500′ on Dry Creek. Exceeding the forecast, just shy of an inch of rain overnight and this morning. It’s wet out there.
Hole in the night sky,
one last glimpse
before the eclipse—
red eye behind
a patch of clouds
and a quarter-inch
to drum upon the roof
while we sleep.
Decayed trunk:
ash and smoke.
Limb wood stacked
by noon
awaiting rain—
small deed
to clear a road
for nursery rhymes—
for an old man’s claim
on another day
to warm the flesh again
and again and again.
Too wet to plow,
cold clear sky
before dawn,
green storm
forecast on the screen—
Live Oak down,
waiting patiently
in the road
to become cordwood
close to the woodstove—
to warm flesh again
and again and again.
Between rains when we couldn’t go anywhere on the ranch, we began extricating boxes of books from the house that have been published by Dry Crik Press since 1989, including every issue of Dry Crik Review. Boxes were stashed throughout the house, office and attic that we sorted into plastic containers, now half-a-pallet in the shop—the first time that Dry Crik’s offerings have been in one spot.
Certainly not a job I relished, Robbin decided to replace the carpet in the living and dining rooms while Bob and I are in Elko. Once we started clearing the floor space, we found box after box of books that had to be dealt with. All of the Dry Crik Review issues, and Dry Crik Press publications prior to 2008, were printed in Craig Lindeman’s garage in Visalia. Craig collected leftover paper from the other print shops, and sympathetic to the cause, didn’t charge much for his work.
The books and memories were overwhelming.
Posted in Photographs, Ranch Journal
Tagged Craig Lindeman, Dry Crik Press, Dry Crik Review, photography
You can tell by the tracks, including the down fence, that the bulls have started running out of work. It appears that a discussion with the neighbor’s bull took place at 3 locations on the downhill side. Testosterone in the air, our 2 bulls on the uphill side went head to head for a while before one was pushed through the wire. The real battle that crippled our bull took place on the neighbor’s side where we retrieved him. Good news is that the fence is repaired and the crippled bull is in a pasture by himself.
Naked girls reach for the light
downstream,
stage right,
day’s end:
with alabaster limbs washed
after a good rain, leaves
puddled in the shadows
at their feet as the sun sets
a little south of the western myth
and the three hundred pagan souls
that owned this canyon,
hills worn smooth—
centuries of cobbles seized
by knotted roots
chasing water
still claim the creek.
A battered jeep limps
home for repairs
down the road between us,
a day at play
in fresh mud and snow
and the girls keep dancing
unconcerned and unafraid
of time
for me.
She arrives quietly before dark night
like a lover returned
reminding how we fell
into one another’s eyes
to share the light—
to help me forget how
the planet spins with acrimony,
all the harsh words
under layers of lies
lost to her shadow cast
across the canyon—
she is a goddess rising.
A long wire gate
in a steep spot
has heard replacement
swinging from pipe braces,
moving the fence,
for twenty-five years—
hears us laughing at the hole
it sometimes takes both to close—
about a list longer than our lifetimes.
On the slick hillside,
reminders realized, open
to pastoral light as I rejoice:
relieved from my word
to myself, to one another,
and to these staples, posts and wire.
Prolonged moment before the all-day rain
quit, evening light pressed into the gray
reflects the mist within like a lantern glowing
separate from the sinking sun, blinding colors
rage around me, superfluous extremes burning
wildly with possibilities that beg me to yield,
to gratefully acquiesce and unfence my mind.
Rooted in a woodstove ash dump, heavy
with seed pods after twenty years—Redbud
in flames, tongues of fire hanging brightly
to taste the damp air fresh with a thousand
new beginnings we’ve yet to speak of.