Out of earth and rock
imagination surfaces,
wants to talk in myths
science will dismiss.
We cannot deny
all senses of the eye,
how it dresses and addresses
what rises before us.
Good water, bedrock mortars—
fish flickering by firelight,
generations of good sense
secured in granite.
~
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2016, Ranch Journal
April 2, 2016
Despite hopes that El Niño conditions would erase the impact of four years drought in California, the Sierra snowpack fell short of normal for April 1st. Even though this winter’s storm track targeted the northern Sierra Nevada, the region still measured only 97% of normal, while the southern Sierra measured only 72% of normal water content.
If rainfall amounts on the ranch are indicative of the southern Sierra Nevada foothills, we are currently above average for the season with the month of April yet to contribute, 18-20 inches thus far as opposed to our 14-15 inch average. However, the San Joaquin Valley floor didn’t fare as well, the town of Hanford still an inch below normal. Typically this year’s northern storm track stacked against the Sierras, bleeding south with rain, but missed much of the Valley floor.
Here on the ranch, it’s been a great grass year where most springs and stockwater resources have recovered. The south and west slopes have already turned as spring temperatures have been running well-above average. Still green in the flats and on the north slopes, we’ll be weaning some fat calves in 30 days.
Posted in Photographs, Ranch Journal
Tagged Drought, photography, rain, snowpack, weather
Over the ridge, friendly families
claim the hillside, pale homesteads
amid a sweep of shadowed green
beg for me to look, first to welcome
me back home, back off the road
two thousand feet below.
Here, now can last a long time—no need
to remember names when everyone
looks the same, ready for a party.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2016, Ranch Journal
Tagged Golden Brodiaea, photography, poetry, Triteleia ixioides, wildflowers
Life dries up and the dark earth cracks,
crumbles back into its open mouth,
stifling a dusty gasp. Already, I have
forgotten focus, how exactly each detail
hung on the moment, on my half-delirious
plodding one-day-at-a-time for years—
photographs no one wants to share.
But when life rains from the sky,
germinates and steams with spring,
I become an April fool inhaling
as much as I can, storing the miracle
in my veins until I become it,
ultimately. No alabaster walls for me,
no perfect city. Let me laze among
my gods: the water and the weeds.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2016, Ranch Journal
Tagged cinnamon teal, photography, poetry
Within the silent clash of blades,
shy scarlet globes within green stems
hide with their heads bowed
if you know where they live.
In the thatch of another world,
snallygaster crane flies become
fairies within the grass forest
we part to share the light
of twenty-one springs together
in these hills with generations
of cattle, with all the wild gods
and goddesses as our witnesses.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2016, Ranch Journal
Tagged Calochortus amoenus, photography, poetry, wildflowers
Thriving in the cracks of granite,
small towns with no strangers
overlooked by bigger appetites
for glory, mountainsides of color.
Carefree young, I rest more often now
resisting time, give-in to gravity
to see my shrinking world up-close:
sagas of intricate adaptations
singing softly to the sun.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2016, Ranch Journal
Tagged flower-friday, Mimulus floribundus, photography, poetry, wildflowers
I let my hand run
upon paper with pencil,
let lines loose to find the grace
etched upon the walls of my mind,
imitate the random arcs
balanced against the tension
of gravity and time
lest I forget a world without
my awkward plodding.
In the foreground: slate gray grass
connects to tall stems bent
with petals across the page.
Purple Owl’s Clover Castilleja exserta
White Owl’s Clover (Valley Tassels) Castilleja attenuata
In the dry and dusty years,
we did not ask much
from our night dreams
of brittle details to get by
day by day—no pastoral
pipe dreams, no comedy.
But we indulge the gods
because we must endure
their sense of humor.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2016, Ranch Journal
The castings of worms
upon damp earth come alive
with old flesh and bones.
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