Damp and cold, her breath
slips through the door cracked
to push the smell of smoke
through the house while it rains
lightly. I steal deep breaths,
pretend I’m young again
before I light another.
Though I miss the real storms,
the overbearing trepidation
that escapes its banks to flood
with heroic tales and wonder
when its over, I am now lifted
out of time on her breath,
this gentle rain, hillsides
running green—reborn again.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2022, Ranch Journal
Tagged breath, Drought, photography, poetry, rain, shy goddess, time, weather
It’s quiet now, she’s come and gone
without a sound, spent the night
without a word as we slept
deeply by the fire. She kept it dark
without the stars, hid the pregnant moon
that shed the rain lightly through the clouds.
We don’t know her name, shy goddess—
but we will leave the light on
with pomegranate jelly at the door.
– – – – –
0.63″ plus bugs
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2022, Ranch Journal
Tagged clouds, Drought, moon, photography, poetry, pomegranate jelly, rain, rain gauge, stars, weather
An ever-play movie,
road in the distance
following the creek
wet or dry
up or down
a stream of SUVs
at 60 spaced militarily
from So Cal
to Christian camps
above Eshom
remembering Loren
on an ox cart load
of carp to dry
for the summer
CalFire trucks
twice a day
cattle neighbors,
goosenecks,
loads of hay
Badger locals
on shoulders parked
for first or last
cell phone service
sprinkled with tentative tourists
and strings of Harleys
roaring for or from
a burger at the Mountain House.
We believe we can read
everybody’s business
long distance.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2022, Ranch Journal
Tagged Badger, body language, Cal Fire, carp, cell phone stops, Christian Camps, Dry Creek Road, entertainment, Eshom, Harleys, Loren Fredricks, photography, poetry, traffic
A pause like prayer,
a nod to the gods holding
the wild together.
Posted in Haiku 2022, Photographs, Poems 2022
Tagged haiku, photography, poetry, Thanksgiving, Tom Turkey, wild
I crave the quiet intimacy of creeks
that feed the bigger rivers
roaring in the granite gorges
or widespread in redundant riffles
with nothing to say. I rather fish
dark cutbanks and water skeeter
eddies frothed below white dogwoods
arching over High Sierra leaks, eclipsing
all but mottled light as I move upstream—
each small pool a unique realm
for browns and rainbows
grazing transparent skirts.
Now that I know I won’t go back,
it is not an appetite for trout
that consumes sweet memories.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2022
Tagged fishing, High Sierra creeks, memories, mountains, photography, poetry, trout
Nothing near, the long-term forecast
changes on the hour as we look out
over Christmas color, out of storage early,
at independent calves at water,
and our persistent green still breathing
with each dawn’s dew. Almost everything
we need is near-at-hand before Thanksgiving
with a welcome splash of cheer
as we wait for rain, like always.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2022, Ranch Journal
Tagged cheer, Christmas, Drought, Dry Creek, forecast, photography, poetry, rain, Thanksgiving, weather
Chain saw heavier, I cut arms
off skeletons littering pastures
and canyons after years of drought,
a battleground where old oaks lost
touch with water—most barkless now
tipped-over or in tangled piles
beneath authoritative trunks
begging purpose, begging cremation
or stacked close to the woodstove.
Old habits and rituals finally slow
as the limbs grow heavier despite
the pleading of the heartwood.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2022, Ranch Journal
Tagged age, cordwood, Drought, habits, oak trees, photography, poetry, rituals, skeletons, woodstove
Color comes with cold and wet
within the canyon, even before
the creek flows or sycamores burn
leather brown to shed their clothes—
white bodies tangled in a pagan dance
to gods unknown. Orioles return
as sparks in the brush, levity
in the pink overcast of dawn.
We glean the fallen skeletons
of oak and brittle manzanita
to fill the woodstove. Curious cattle
come to wonder what we’re about.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2022, Ranch Journal
Tagged cattle, colors, Drought, Dry Creek, Fire, firewood, Manzanita, photography, poetry, rain, sycamores, weather
Three-day one-inch-rain,
warm wet dirt germinating
green hair on steep slopes.
(Click to enlarge)
Posted in Haiku 2022, Photographs, Poems 2022, Ranch Journal
Tagged cotyledons, earth, germination, haiku, miracle, nature, photography, poetry, rain, seed, water
After a slow three-day rain,
clay dust dark brown and firm,
we think we see a tinge of green
before wet seed has time to burst
with open-handed cotyledons
through the saturated dirt.
Yesterday, on the optometrist’s screen
I see my eyeballs and optic nerves
that anticipate such good fortune:
bare ground, sloping hillsides
carpeted with short green—
a start to change our luck.
for Terence Miller
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2022, Ranch Journal
Tagged cotyledons, Drought, eyes, grass, green, optic nerve, optometrist, photography, poetry, rain, seed, weather
(click)
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