
Up here, the deer unafraid.
We freeze together
to see who melts away first.
Posted in Haiku 2022, Photographs, Poems 2022
Tagged deer, haiku, photography, poetry, privacy

Along the road the CCCs
chiseled in the 30s, men and mules,
wheelbarrows and Fresno scrapers,
miles of sidehill on perfect grade
while the old oak watched
from the saddle
before the place got a name.
Coyotes trapped or shot
were tied with baling wire and hung
from a long, horizontal limb
through summer heat and rain
before becoming skeletons.
How many bones beneath it now
howl from its hollow limbs?
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2022
Tagged 30s, bones, CCC, coyotes, photography, poetry, skeletons

Judges in California’s Third District Court of Appeal
ruled in late May that the bumblebee can legally fall
within the definition of a fish when it comes to the
definition of endangered species. “Although the term
fish is colloquially and commonly understood to refer
to aquatic species, the term of art employed by the
Legislature in the definition of fish in section 45 is not
so limited,” the trio of judges wrote.
– Western Livestock Journal, June 13, 2022
After work they like their G & Ts,
drawn to tonic and Tangueray,
slice of lime in an iced-down glass—
but some drink too much!
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2022, Ranch Journal
Tagged artichoke, bumblebees, endagered species, photography, poetry

We’re talking cattle
with a rising moon in June,
making plans for cows and calves—
the gather and sort to town,
where old friends shuffle
across the sale barn’s catwalk,
boot soles sliding, glad
to be moving among the living
when so many are not.
No one cares about our conversations,
the moon eavesdrops when it wants
just to measure our progress.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2022, Ranch Journal
Tagged cattle, moon, photography, poetry

Say good-bye to your mothers
for the long ride
all you children—
the truck is clean
shavings on the floor.
Driver said it snowed
before he left,
needed chains on Donner
rolling empty here in May.
We shake our heads
about the weather,
damn little rain,
the creek’s gone dry.
With a week of winds
the oaks have come alive,
tree limbs dancing
like separate tongues
trying to lick the sky.
We shipped our last load of Wagyu X calves to Snake River Farms on Tuesday as we continue to gather and wean our Angus calves. Both cows and calves have done well despite the extremely dry spring, in part because of our heavy culling that cut our cow herd by a third after only six inches of rain the year before. With drought across the Western US, cow numbers are down everywhere resulting in a stronger market than we’ve seen in years. With unpredictable weather, higher costs for grain and inflation, we may be raising beef we can’t afford to eat.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2022, Ranch Journal
Tagged cattle, cows, Drought, Dry Creek, photography, poetry, rain, Snake River Farms, Wagyu X Calves, weather

What calamity is greater than no contentment,
And what flaw greater than the passion for gain?
Tao Te Ching (“46”) Book of Songs)
Following ten years drought,
gusty evenings under gray clouds
add depth to blond hillsides—
contrasting tomorrow’s summer feed
that begs embracing,
that begs old flesh to awaken,
but begs no mention but to look
with an empty mind.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2022, Ranch Journal
Tagged c. 6th century B.C.E., Classical Chinese Poetry, contentment, Drought, empty mind, photography, poetry, weather

Yesteryear calls out of the blue
in these piebald canyons turning brown
yawning across a shrinking creek
to leave a confidential message—
not in words, but deeds. Faces,
always faces. Big George Hubble
in grade school who loaned me a dime
for a lemon bar popsicle
I never paid back. Some call
from out of the ground
that I never knew had gone on
to find their relief.
Some faces leave no names,
or none I can remember,
to console me as I did them
during the paisley days of a jungle war
I missed for a football knee
trying to be a hero.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2022
Tagged fate, memory, old days, photography, poetry, Viet Nam War, weather

Stealing the warmth of gravel
an inch at a time, famished
after winter’s long dream
of what’s on the menu:
blind hatch appetizers
or a full-grown squeeze.
https://drycrikjournal.com/2021/09/04/tight-squeeze/
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2022
Tagged Gopher Snake, native community, photographs, poetry, springtime

As children in the mountains
we learned to walk in the dark
on the uneven ground we knew
sometimes shadowed by starlight
or an occasional moon.
It was a wonder watching it rise
behind the far pines
as we lay on our backs
supposing excitedly about something
long since resolved,
but such a luxury to feel the hair
on familiar cedars, puzzle
over the sap of sugar pines,
fish the river for adventure
in the old days.
Time has simplified my map
to safe and basic trails
with many landmarks,
each with a story
to remind me where I am.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2022
Tagged children, dark, mountains, old days, photography, poetry

The hollow sounds before daylight,
hillside Roadrunners awakening in the black,
their plaintive solos, reverberating notes
awaiting an answer, a location, a place
to be filled in the future, a pile of twigs
within the spines of cactus
beneath this soft comforter of clouds,
days trailing a meager rain to shield us
and the dew upon the grass.
The day is yet empty, moments awaiting
purpose and order. In my mind, I see
the tools I’ll need to be useful.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2022
Tagged dawn, order, photography, poetry, purpose, Roadrunners, useful