Everyone out early in the heat
before the earth is too hot to touch,
a Grackle shakes the last drops
of a morning bath to preen
and quickly drip-dry upon a rock.
Time essential, we squeeze the work
beneath the angle of a risen sun
that by ten bakes all living things.
Everyone out early when we meet.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2016, Ranch Journal
Tagged Great-tailed Grackle, photography, poetry
Sometimes they come to take a look,
glide in low with all their tools
from a bare oak branch to see just who
spoiled the plan to dine on squirrel
straying too far from its earthen burrow—
and perhaps too, to take a moment
to deliver their displeasure, face-to face,
eye-to-eye, to make sure you know
that you screwed up.
It may be possible
upon reflection
after a wet spring,
mottled sun beneath
the canopy of sycamores
standing, frozen still
upon black water.
The sloshing sound
of my wet feet
not ready to walk
to Canada,
leave the creek
and family behind,
become outlaw
in their mind.
It may be possible
to fill those channels
again, rain until
the road flows by.
And when the earth
is full, excess standing,
I may look down
upon heaven’s clouds
with no direction.
After the odyssey in Charles Frazier’s “Cold Mountain” and Leonard Durso’s poem “a thousand years ago on some coastline in the fall.”
An unrelenting beast serene, the sea
laps land into sand–and man’s short trail
of broken glass into translucent jewels–
yet neither heart nor compassion
ride upon her constant undulations
cresting white before they crash
within the foamy broth of time, stirring all
into another fresh instant. It should be
she, when we pray for storms, or for
relief from lustful passion. I do not care
to know her well, embraced inland
at a distance, my words come carefully.
According to my records, we’ve only had two days since the Solstice under 100°, but the mornings have been fairly cool from first light until 9:00 a.m. This morning was no exception, simply a beautiful Sabbath.
We’ve kept our replacement heifers close to the corrals since they were weaned in May and June, waiting for their Bangs vaccination for Brucellosis and second round of shots, deworming and fly control that has entailed pumping water daily. We’ve had a lot of eye problems due to foxtails and some foot rot due to bacteria encouraged by the wet spring. Having them close by has helped us gather for doctoring.
We think this year’s heifers are exceptional, both in genetics and temperament. They have gotten to know the Kubota since they were calves, and then again when it brought hay everyday to the weaning pen. So we utilize the Kubota when we gather—they come to it naturally.
Saturday, after Friday’s processing, I led the bunch off the dry feed and irrigated pasture, fed some hay, ready to open them to 300 more acres of dry feed and another source of water, our irrigation pond. By this morning, they were exploring the shore of the pond when I arrived to see how they were doing. Naturally, they all gravitated to the Kubota to discover tall, untouched green feed in the spillway of the pond where excess water flows back into the Kaweah River.
Followers of this blog know it’s all about the girls, our prejudice for females—after all we are a cow/calf outfit. Though we were quite pleased with our steers, it’s not about bragging rights as to how big or nice they were in the sales ring—just an annual dividend, they pay our bills. It’s about the girls, two-thirds of which, with a little luck, will be with us for ten years. They become our future.
Posted in Photographs, Ranch Journal
Tagged cows, girls, heifers, photography, Ranch Journal
Clinging to a willow branch
above the cattails, singing
across the pond at dawn,
this world is small enough
for herons and mud hens,
a loan goose and bullfrogs—
all the drama necessary
for a rich full life
of trying to get along.
The poles were new
after the Flood of ‘55
serving granddad’s pump
in the river,
serving cross-arms,
serving Osprey
nests of sticks
shorting-out
and burning-up
into a hard rain
of spring, 2010.
Platforms now above
the wires, they watch
from a distance
of distrust.
Busy with cleanup,
little time to say hello
or come much closer.
Posted in Haiku 2016, Photographs, Poems 2016
Tagged haiku, photography, poetry, turkey vulture
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