
The size and behavior of a grackle working the shore of a stock water pond that is drying up.
About 4:00 p.m. yesterday afternoon, an arsonist started a grass fire about a quarter-mile north of the house, 110°. After calling CalFire, I got to the head of the fire with the skid steer as the first engine arrived.
Fortunately, the fire break we built in April kept the blaze along the road and off the hills, leaking only north and south. After unlocking the gate for the crew from Modoc County familiarizing themselves with the local terrain and responding to smoke, I returned south as Air Tac dumped Phoschex on both ends of the 3 acre blaze.
A wake-up call and good practice for us all as we enter fire season.
Our solar pump is unable to keep up with the demand from our weaned heifers, so we’ve been having to pump water with a gas generator everyday as temperatures rise. While waiting for the tank to fill, I kept busy with my camera.
After most wildflowers have disappeared and the green grass fades to a brittle bronze, Milkweed becomes the sole attractant for bugs and pollinators, especially the ubiquitous Tarantula Hawks, flying low and slow on erratic, yet undeterred courses. We, and most other animals, move around them.
Unlikely partners yesterday while checking the stockwater and cows on the Paregien ranch, I caught this Tarantula Hawk and a butterfly I’ve never seen before. I Googled lots of black and red moths and butterflies without a match. Now, I wish I’d spent more time and taken some macro shots.
Weekly Photo Challenge: “Partners”
Seventy-five days old
the last time a full moon moved
through the shortest night:
1948—I wake at two to see
wild oats blond on sloping walls
as the dogs bark in the distance
on coyote business, like always.
Dry years in the San Joaquin,
Dad shipped thin steers in the rain
when I was born, bought some more
to feed on green into July
I can’t imagine possible, but
we stayed the droughts, like always,
in a canyon I’ve never left
for long—nowhere calling,
no other place to claim my tears
of sweat and blood, sentiments scattered
on dry ground like leaves of poetry.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2016, Ranch Journal
Tagged photography, poetry, summer solstice
It’s not a clean world
where frogs can live like kings
on their own island
apart from the main
stream, where stagnant
boils under the summer sun
with new life they trust
will keep them fed
tomorrow. So far
from our marsh
and mire beginnings,
we tidy up instead.