In these hills, a man finds space that feels
familiar and friendly, and it must ask
in ways where we hang empty words
like ribbon just to find our way back - but
we stay a moment and let our horses blow.
They feel it - perhaps they feel it first
and do the asking of the place, or perhaps
it is the shards of light diffused at dawn
upon the many-legged oaks standing
knee-deep in grasses on the near ridge
that shield us from man’s square creations,
his cubic thinking. Perhaps the sensual grace
of limb or slope, or granite worn to look
inside our minds, but there are places
that ask nothing else of us but to breathe
and taste the air, inhale with our eyes
and drink with our flesh for just a moment.
Once dared, it becomes ever-easier to be
enveloped with the wild, an addictive peace
that embraces awe as eagerly as a child
might love - where a man can ride beyond
his time and station, beyond the tracks of those
before him: spaces that beg a moment’s notice
where both grand and simple revelations
are left and learned and lived in place.
Dark morning chill stirs the flesh
to welcome winter waiting
for flaming tongues
to lick between
dry Manzanita branches
igniting Blue oak
in the woodstove’s glow.
I recall storms, the floods
and endless downpours,
creek too high to cross
for thirty days and pray
for anything wet enough
to start the grass
for cows and calves—
for my sanity, something
akin to normal
in these crazy days
of politics and pandemic—
something to trust
as right as rain—
something to believe in.
It’s an art
countin’ cattle,
‘specially calves—
it takes concentration
to keep a mind closed
to everything else
and get the same answer
twice.
Dad maintained
that the simpler the mind
the more dependable
the count—
the only excuse
I’ve got.
Nap-time nurseries beneath the sycamores, babysitting cows relieve one another to eat and drink.
Those without calves recline with bellies bulging, thrust painfully skyward like over-inflated black beach balls—
all await the green soft-stemmed alfalfa— await new life, await a rain
to settle dust underfoot as they graze short-cropped dry feed into the dirt
awaiting new life— seed awaiting rain.
The long range forecast confirms our superstitions, but like a no-hitter we dare not mention yet—
until the dark hole in the barn grows larger, until the canyon fills with echoing complaints, the agonizing song of cows begging, calf solos in the distance.
The mysteries, puzzled
pieces scattered, most missing
and decomposed by the moment
linger, shelved in the back room
for future reference
awaiting adhesive connections
that seldom take shape.
The ranch and its inhabitants,
the wild and tame, the unknowing
hands of man and the malicious,
the well-meaning touch
that turns terribly tragic--all
scattered, stacked one upon the other,
clues that only true detectives
note in the dusty swirl of ambiguity
left to settle with experience--
an illusive sense beyond the tangible
that this old ground evokes.
* * * *
Inspired by an article in the latest issue of Will Hearst's
Alta Magazine:
https://altaonline.com/private-investigators-san-francisco-phil-bronstein/
