Tag Archives: photography

AFTER THANKSGIVING

 

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I stumble out of an old dream panicked
about cattle I haven’t checked in months
on a hidden ranch I can’t place, connect
except they were not grazing vineyard rows
with no fences, not loose in town this time,
but on some hard-to-gather rolling ground
you can’t see from the pocked asphalt road
snaking through blond summer foothills.

Last time, they were OK, bull calves
too big to brand breeding sisters, but alive
on good feed and water. It may have been
the turkey dressing drenched in juices,
or the cranberries fermenting fear familiar
that I recognize more than this imagined place
to wait before saddling a horse, loading-up
asleep to tilt at impossible windmills.

I’ve been here before, rusty wire on redwood
posts askew, exploring canyons, finding old
rough-haired families too weak to be wild—
all the guilt and disappointment I need
to torture my subconscious. Too old for that,
I roll over to let my weak knees hang before
testing with a first step towards reality:
cigarette, coffee and a poem for Black Friday.

 

BLACK SKIES

 

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Dark morning without moon or stars
before the first winter storm, the day before
Black Friday rains deals and discounts

for Christmas, for our economy and I am
ever thankful that the bulls are out early
courting cows, meeting kids and family

before dirt roads get too slick to travel—
ever thankful for the drought that felled
two big Live Oaks on the gate and fence

we corded-up and stacked beneath the eave
before the girls drove posts and spliced
the barbed wire on a mat of green

to leave the mess looking like a park—ever
thankful for them, for you and this ground
we’re invested in together, for good horses

willing to get the cow work done—
black skies without moon or stars,
you and I alone before the storm.

 

VIRGINS

 

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Unloaded into a new world
from the soupy end of a semi,
three clean, black and fat young bulls

spend their first night bewildered
away from home with alfalfa
to rest before I brand and turn them

into families of cows and calves
strung in a line on hay waiting
for their awkward inspection.

It takes time to learn the language
of making love, a prolonged foreplay
of mistakes and miscalculations

as I remember shadows in the 60s,
a fractured bravado ready
for reconstruction any time of day.

An old man worries nonetheless—
checks their progress before dark
confirming they’ve been to water.

Still working on their approach
to young mothers, no seed planted yet,
nothing banked into our future.

 

The Nature of Bulls and the Weather

 

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A light rain arrived before daylight and continued through yesterday morning, 0.12”, not much, but enough to brighten-up the grass while the girls fed and I fixed fence around the bull pen, trapping the last of the bulls at large for the past week in the riparian along Dry Creek—beyond which our replacement heifers selected for Wagyu bulls are only a narrow pasture away—all the usual testosterone tension and shenanigans that’s hard on fences as the calendars in their bullheads suggest re-establishing the pecking order before it’s time to go to work on December 1st. We will acquiesce, as we did last year, choosing to put them to work a little early rather than fix fence until our target date.

A decade or so ago at the Visalia Livestock Market ‘Off the Grass Sale’, I was admiring some Angus eight-weight steer calves in the ring that belonged to Art Tarbell, perhaps the best calves offered that day. Retired as the local brand inspector, I’d known Art all my life, a kind and honest man. I asked him when he put his bulls out, suspecting that his calves might be a little older than ours. He chuckled saying, “Oh, they sorta put themselves out!”

So much for trying to manage bulls by the numbers.

More rain has begun to appear from several sources in the forecast for Friday and Sunday after Thanksgiving, no gulleywashers, but hope for a little more moisture to add to our meager 1.50” so far this season. Our own unscientific forecast has storms arriving Sunday through Tuesday, close enough and reassuring. Nothing I’ve seen or read indicates that this will be anything but another dry year for the southern two-thirds of California and the United States.

More disturbing news from Daniel Swain’s ‘The California Weather Blog’ http://weatherwest.com/archives/author/thunder: “Over the past few weeks, a truly extraordinary “heat wave” has been taking place at a time of year when temperatures should be plummeting to bitterly cold values after the onset of “Polar Night.” Near the North Pole, surface temperatures have been at or near the freezing point for an extended period of time–around 35 degrees F above average, and not cold enough to allow for the formation of sea ice. This extreme warmth, combined with unusual wind patterns, have combined to produce record-low sea ice extent across much of the Arctic Ocean basin. In fact, (apparently) for the first time in the observational record, significant multi-day sea ice losses have occurred during the peak freeze-up season. Meanwhile, in Northern Siberia, extreme cold and incredibly deep snowfalls have been observed–itself likely a consequence of the lack of sea ice to the North. This has led to a rather incredible atmospheric setup where actual temperatures currently increase as one goes north from Eurasia to the North Pole.”

That’s the latest, we gird our loins, but ever thankful for what we have.

 

WEED SEED

 

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                                                                                                    …my life
                                        a patient willing descent into the grass.

                                             – Wendell Berry (“The Wish To Be Generous”)

Hemmed in silver moonlight, scattered
clouds linger over hills, no wet reflection
of the porch light. She has come and gone

without waking me with thunder, pellets
on the roof, not a leaky drip from the eave,
leaving nothing to remember her passing

by—not even her musty petrichor perfume
in the damp dark air to soothe my senses—
gone without a thought of waking me.

From a distance in the daylight, islands
of purple filaree look like dirt in graying
green, rolling dusty plumes follow cows

into water, yet they don’t seem to worry
into another winter without rain. Too
familiar, I read the signs with each synapse

shortened by the hard and dry. Too long
in the same place, I can see the weather
and the world have changed around me—

changed me as I retreat and try to adapt
like summer weed seed over time:
impervious to thirst and political herbicides.

 

INGRAINED

 

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I awake with chain saw eyes
measuring fallen trees:

                                        to die of thirst,
                                        dividends of drought

thick torsos with loose bark,
little brush to stack

                                        to clear for grass,
                                        to cover quail from hawks—

stove wood to haul and split
to hold the cold at bay

                                        outside the door
                                        into chimney smoke

and they are beautiful
in death, limbs reaching up

                                        lengths cut clean
                                        with sharp eyes

like people to heaven
begging notice, a chance

                                        for purpose yet
                                        and I am looking,

measuring like a tailor
around burls and forks—

                                        old habits stumbling
                                        with weak knees

in and out of dreams
come wintertime.

 

THE FUTURE IS FEMALE

 

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                                            Sigh no more, ladies.
                                                                                            Time is male
                                            and in his cups drinks to the fair.

                                                 – Adrienne Rich (“Sanpshots of a Daughter-in-Law”)

The women here wear leaves,
offer shade and dance in place
of plans to clear the unimproved—

or they bear children, populate
with coyote pups that learn
to clean the plates of men

girls fill with grass, raising
cows for heifer calves—
women teaching women.

The hawks are nesting, almost
everything on the wind
is a feminine production—

no passing fad for a buck.
I’ll raise my glass, bet
our future on the women.

 

THE SONG

 

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Rare harmony, the grays and greens
spill off the hills like stringed music
in the gloaming, naked oaks in granite,

cows and calves bent to new grass
step slowly mowing earth and rain
at work in the bright of day and night.

Like sea tides rising, each blade eager
twists towards the moon in cool darkness,
drawn to listen to heaven’s basic chords.

A wild sound is playing now outside
while waiting for a cloud, for the strum
of winter storms to prolong the song.

 

TARANTULA

 

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An evening walk:
eight hairy legs in concert
with one another.

 

TOGETHER

 

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                                    And note this, dear dead doctor:
                                    When we sleep, our legs twitch,
                                    And not from the hunt
                                    But from trying to run away.

                                                   – Gary Soto (“Dr. Freud, Please”)

A Red Tail pair in Blue Oak tops, buff breasts bared
glow at first light, watch over their dark shoulders
as I feed hay, speak to horses, winter mornings

to wonder about the everyday routines that tie us
to animals, to a place and time by the sun. The deer
would lay down where the barn stands now

over a shrinking stack of bales, a short walk
to metal mangers as I look back through the eyes
of the house to see you moving to the woodstove,

curls of Manzanita smoke disappear into the gray.
We have camped in the trail between canyons of wild
pad and hoof, claimed the space they walk around

and would take back should we be gone for long
without our habits holding what we’ve done together,
together—for this moment we hold our ground.