Before the heat, Cooper’s Hawks own
the dawning, three flaps and glide
between sycamores and oaks
for squirrel or quail. Two coyote pups
have become the easy road kill
they were hunting before the snakes
and cottontails had to be peeled
from the chip seal. This old road
flows as a river of meals,
an overnight history
of the wild life at night
I missed while I was dreaming.
Keeping track on scraps of paper,
poet friends and cattle
in far-flung pastures
I’ve yet to see, yet to gather—
yet I can smell them near,
inhale their cud-breath
from letters pressed
in chapbooks: songs
of purpose and suggestion.
Numbers don’t matter
this close to the corrals
and its dust-cloud sort:
‘in and bye’
for one more season
or gooseneck trip to town.
© Terri Blanke
We hate it, but we do it well
before the steel gets too hot
to touch, man or beast—
down the lead-up from the tub
to the hydraulic squeeze,
Enforce 3 and Cylence
for the respiratory bugs and flies,
foxtail relief from flaming eyes,
or whatever else might help
before their gooseneck ride to town,
looking blankly out at cars
and houses, we wish them well.
Held in high regard,
we let the dead lean until
we lay down to rest.
I’m not sure I noticed
the grand old oak on the ridge
when it was alive with so many
green others before the drought.
Crushed today, it wrapped
its brittle branches around me.
At first light, a hole in the clouds
up canyon, a fresh and fiery moment
approaching the wonder of all things—
especially the egrets, herons, and hawks
out early stalking gophers and squirrels
as the night sky catches fire.
But I’ve given-up collecting signs
of what’s to come—or of the consequences
of all we’ve done.
Canyon quiet,
calves weaned and gone,
girls pre-checked bred
for the shorter days
of fall—wait in the breezy
shade of blue oaks,
graze early and late
for ninety-five days
over a hundred degrees.
Leaves heavy with rain,
they bend and bow
to one another in gusts:
short blond feed quivers
as if this old dirt
is taking a breath.
I remember my mother
trying to show me lightening
in a Sierra thunderstorm
and all I could see
was the sun: a faded moon
hiding behind it all.
I am pleased and proud to have some of my poetry as a part of this moving and powerful documentary from the American Angus Association.
Farmers and ranchers across the country are dealing with increasing urbanization of rural America. With that urbanization brings challenges and opportunities. Hear from five Angus farm and ranch families, including: Lovin family, Lexington, Georgia; Marsh family, Huntley, Illinois, Stabler family, Brookeville, Maryland; and the Cropp family, Damascus, Maryland, about how urban sprawl has impacted them and American Farmland Trust CEO John Piotti about the issue as a whole. The American Angus Association® is proud to present the first film to expose the impact of urban sprawl on American Agriculture – “Losing Ground”—an I Am Angus production.
-Rachel Robinson
Posted in Photographs, Ranch Journal, Video
Tagged American Angus Association, photography, poetry, urban sprawl
Old friends pass on clouds,
slide up the canyon,
bring rain and thunder.
We cry and ache beneath
our cage of ribs, remember
each dear one by name.
for JAT
drycrikjournal 