The trails are gone,
hats above a sea of wild oats
like navigating ground fog
blind to rocks and ruts
in a slow gather
bringing tunnels together,
cows and calves. All the brags
of tying knots above the withers,
dally wraps around the horn,
ring tame and distant—
even the best broke horse
can’t resist temptation.
As always, our primary concern during the weaning process is to reduce stress on the calves. Last week’s heifer calves above have adapted easily to their new routine on the irrigated pasture without mothers to comfort and direct them.
In the process of upgrading our processing area with a hydraulic squeeze and shed roof, we’ve also offered some shade in 100-degree temperatures. This week’s bunch of steers and heifers have found comfort in the new enclosure during the day, free to go to hay and water when they please.
In the interests of journaling, these steers and heifers averaged 722 lbs. when unloaded at the corrals after a 45 minute haul, heavier than last week’s calves: steers averaging 731 lbs. in the auction ring, and the heifers averaging 712 lbs. before turned out on the irrigated pasture.
Two weeks into weaning,
we celebrate real progress,
the gather, sort and haul—
the harvest down deep-rutted
dirt tracks, 4-wheel drive,
low-range gooseneck tow,
bawling calves to the asphalt—
our early peach
tequila margarita,
just-picked berry
and last season’s lime
juice frozen into a star.
Blank page and pencil,
this year rattles
everywhere we go.
We begin to gather
all the good news
showered upon us
from the sky,
harvest the grass
in the flesh of calves,
and like every year
we will weigh them,
measure our good fortune
with a number
to judge a season by.
We will turn the cows out
back to grass, back to homes
they’ve made on ground
good for little else
but wildlife—four-month
vacation with the girls
gossiping in the shade
without bulls
or nagging children
to disturb them.
Not a bad life
when it rains.
Cultivating a native life,
we pause for totems,
let them tell us
what they think—
who they are.
Some count on us
to stir the grass
and follow,
and some to listen
when we drink
coffee or wine
outside.
Claiming the roost
of loving crow mates,
a Golden Eagle lights
for a closer look at us—
and we are blessed.
Finding his feather
left ahead,
we believe
in something
more common
of the wild,
of talismans
from moments
we never forget
and hope to leave
as much.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2016, Ranch Journal
Tagged Golden Eagle, photography, poetry, TALISMANS, TOTEMS
At their feet, I must leave home—
the house, the canyon, to see them.
At the overpass between Exeter
and Visalia, when at cloudy dawn
they became my mother’s rumpled
bedclothes as she courted death,
the Sierras cloaked in a gossamer mist
that embraced me. Or just south
of Lemon Cove, up the Kaweah’s long,
open throat, sharp-toothed peaks
of granite scree reach for the sky,
changing moods in every light.
A man must have mountains
to shed the nonsense to get to—
a distant and steep ascent
for the spirit, soul and flesh—
a place safe to wander fire to fire,
star to star, to drink from snowmelt.
Wide arms open, they welcome me
as I come home from town
to lay down at their wrinkled feet.
Long stiff with the sweat of years,
I see myself beneath its dust, retired
from the common ignorance of haste.
All the timed events, all the wild cattle
made by the chase are scars etched
in fragile leather, some in my brain
as sweet memories of riding high,
shoulder to shoulder in the gather
of good men shaped by this landscape
that will outlast us in the end. Too soon
old, they say, too late wise, I could
always have taken better care of time,
thrown away the watches and clocks
and invested it in the real observation
of other living things—even the smallest
of which has a mission to teach us
the hard way. And what I fail to see—
this slow creak of bones will illuminate.
Muggy morning beneath a raft of clouds
docked against the Sierras steals molecules
of oxygen beside the last hole dug for granddad’s
gravel that now traps tailwater from the pasture
in the summer, its dark, stagnant pool teams
with amoeba and paramecium, a fermenting
stench swum only by cormorants and mud hens.
Sweet fragrance on a gust startles my senses
to search the dry grass for color, tree limbs
for blossoms from willow to sycamore,
blackberry to cottonwood, but none in flower
before the forecast Mother’s Day thunderstorms.
Perfumed tendrils cling like Christmas lights
from branches and I am drenched, taste damp
sweetness as I become wild grapes in bloom.
Apparently I’m taking a break from daily blogging, and frankly, it feels good. We’re in maintenance mode, getting our equipment serviced and repaired before we begin weaning some nice calves this year. The market is off by a third from last year, nearly a dollar/pound, and we won’t have as many as calves to sell as before the drought, our cow herd down by 40%. We’ll see some red ink this season.
The good news is that we have lots of grass that ought to carry us through until fall. We also have some awfully nice replacement heifers that pre-checked well, bred to Wagyu bulls, as we begin our rebuilding process. At 18 months they averaged 1100 pounds, due to calve in mid-September.
More than likely posts will be sporadic for awhile.
In the cattails, long leaves
like a thatch of swords
after a war, hem the water in—
veil the mud hens putzing
close to shore where bullfrogs
freeze in the sun
waiting for something good
to come along this irrigation pond
trying to go wild. I have come
to love their god-awful birdsong
like rusty hinges on a pipe gate
yodeling in the tight places,
musical cascades turned loose
to lyrics I still don’t understand.
I say I think they’re courting
because its spring, because
you and I have stopped
to watch them sing.
drycrikjournal 