Tag Archives: poetry

GOLDEN HOUR

 

 

Bob has been waiting for this cow to calve for a week, checking her and her tribe of first-calf heifers in the evenings. I am impressed with the iPhone’s ability to capture a wide range of light, and if held still, its sharpness. He’s also captured the maternal instincts of this new mother #8118, a Hereford-Angus X cow, with her fresh Wagyu X calf – exactly what we’re looking for in replacement heifers.

 

IO

On the horns of an infant moon,
the creek shrinks and pools
between sycamores and live oaks

as babies come to first-time mothers
bringing the bear tracks downcanyon
on the scent of spent placentas.

Black progeny of the river nymph –
white heifer driven madly by Hera’s
gadfly Oestrus to cross continents

and populate Asia – find maternity
perplexing at first. Yet, lick and nuzzle
the stumbling wet struggle to stand,

suckle and rest that enflames instinct
in all flesh. Worthy timeless worship,
no better mother ever than a cow.

 

“IO” is included in POEMS FROM DRY CREEK, Starhaven, 2008.

 

WILD REFLECTIONS

 

© drycrikjournal.com

 

Laugh when you can—
there are enough unfunny days.

Let irony dance nakedly,
                 hand in hand
                 with the unspoken,
                 mundane truths
                 that squirm
beneath the flesh of humans
dying for confirmation.

We have become too serious
for our own good—
                 too holy,
                 too righteous
to be believed as real
representations of this nation
wrought from imperfect men,
and women, trying to forget
their sins—and I among them.

Let the wild calculations
of hawk and coyote confirm
                 our impetuous natures
                 to gain a better sense
                 of humor—
of who we truly are.

 

(click image to enlarge July 2012 photo of Cooper’s Hawk)

 

Twins

 

 

Followers of the blog and and Facebook friends may be bored with our photographs of cattle, but it’s the most exiting time of year for us and our crew as the weather changes. It’s essential that we keep our eyes on our coming two-year old heifers that are having their first Wagyu X calves by recording their tag numbers and any other information that will help inform us as to whether they’ll make the cow herd or not—and to a less anxious degree, our second-calf heifers as well.

The twin bull calves from cow #3054, a mature six year old cow, appear to be sired by our Black Granite bull from Tehama Angus Ranch, spitting images of him at this stage of their short lives. We think that she can raise them both.

 

NO BETTER MOTHER THAN A COW

 

 

It’s early yet for rain,
for distant silhouettes
of cows and fresh calves
beneath oak trees
                    nurturing poetry
with murmurs and licks
on a young mother’s tongue.

A slow rhythm and meter
for weeks in the womb
that rumble clearly now:
                    single syllables,
                    grunts and moans—
a universal language
instinct pumps
forever between them.

 

LONG INTO THE NIGHT

 

 

The tin roof of this old barn
leaks news like rain and flaps
in a pretentious storm of words

it tries to shed as we huddle
in the dry with what we believe—
the sun will come to green

the dirt and repair our senses,
and we will sing Hallelujah!
rejoicing long into the night.

 

RECALLING ROBERT FROST

 

 

With evening G & Ts
we will stare
across the creek
at black hills,
white ash remains
cut by cowtrails—
pink phos-chek trim
between blond dry feed
until it rains
                              gray,
until it rains
                              green.

We map the burn,
watch the weather,
hope for ground soft-enough
to drive steel posts
for five barbed strands
of Red Brand

because good fences
make better neighbors
for a long time.

 

FIRE DESIGNS

 

 

Ashes, white on black
slopes, drought-dead Blue Oaks, final
portraits of a fire.

 

POWERLESS

 

 

It’s black early yet,
few lanterns glowing
across the quiet canyon,

drought-killed Blue Oaks:
roots simmering
in the rock-hard ground.

The wind will turn
the burnt to gray
until the rains

bring a fresh green
start—nothing
we can change.

 

LOOKING WEST FROM CHUKCHANSI

 

 

Night stalks the day,
tracks the last light
over the edge
of our horizons
a slice in time away

from calvy cows
that graze the gloaming
before bedtime,
rest upon the hard
clay ground of home.

Among the gray hairs,
walkers and wheelchairs,
our game of chance:
the heartbeat’s thrill
with wild circumstance.

 

THIS WHEEL’S ON FIRE

 

 Photo: Brazil Photos/LightRocket via Getty Images

 

                                                                                you lift your faces
                    and let it drench you in evening prayer.
                                        – George Perreault (“April Winslow: Waiting on a Rain”)

Nothing good about the Amazon
burning better than expected:
a fifth less oxygen,
drier Gulf storms
from the llano to California
to stream our cheeks with prayer.