On the edge of irrigated green
grazing toward morning shade,
she’s on vacation, calf gone
as another stirs in her belly
to fulfill the appetites of a reckless
race she’ll never know.
Behind the barbed wire, safe
beyond the thistles, she’s content
to gossip days with girlfriends,
to contemplate a moment
for undisturbed hours—perfecting
poetry within her heavy skull.
Bullfrog pollywogs
leap to gasp warm July air
prior to croaking.
On the other side,
senses tuned
to the endless spectacle,
I have not time to waste
on unresolved plotless dramas,
soap opera sideshows.
Disbelief and bad acting
have held me paralyzed
at the gate—it’s time
to turn away
and let my mind graze
on its own.
for Ted Waddell
Another ant
in the anthill,
another bee
in the beehive,
another cog
on the treadmill—
I was bred to like work,
crave approval, but
make do with feeling good
about a job done better
than the last time—
an inclination to improve
the world around me
if I don’t stray
too far from home.
Like jewels glinting in summer weeds
as the creek retreats, Scarlet
Monkeyflowers, like faceted rubies
scattered among the cockleburs
within the rising green, flash
day’s first light before their tongues
unfold—unroll to sing to whirring
hummingbirds to pollinate their seed—
fine powder stirred with their foreheads.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2017
Tagged photography, poetry, Scarlet Monkeyflower, wildflowers
Pink bouquets
along the creek
ignore the heat.
Always on the edge of it,
the Valley fades into flat farms
and busy towns we have forgotten
beyond our circle of foothill cows.
Visalia lies somewhere in the haze.
Up and down the state
commerce churns cars between
RVs and trucks on US 99
we can’t see—yet tension turns
a wheel away as I leave
my window framed
in drought-killed trees,
yet still standing to screen
my wobbly presence
near the edge of it—I retreat
to more solid ground.
The days of busting brush
but polished stories, faded glories
washed by time upon this ground—
one-time mothers, the girls
remember, find their place
at feeders in the corral
where they were weaned,
to catch a ride uphill
to make homes for fall calves.
We have spoiled them, trained
for yet another moment
to work together. Too hot
to touch, the days blaze
soon after the shade of night
retreats in streaks of heat.
Robbin’s iPhone photo after following the girls into the corral. It’s been a warm week with temperatures over 110 degrees as we’ve weaned, processed and shipped our last load of bull calves to town. Polite and cooperative, these second-calf heifers hauled easily to Greasy while it was still cool. A smooth day—done before ten.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2017, Ranch Journal
Tagged cattle, photography, poetry, weather
Our temperatures have been peaking about 5:00 p.m. as thunderheads roll up the Great Western Divide. In line with Big Meadows and Cedar Grove on the Kings River, yesterday’s cell built and lasted about 30 minutes while we baked in 111 degrees on Dry Creek. Forecasters promise more of the same through the weekend. After a heat spell like this one, we usually begin to acclimate well-enough to look forward to 100. But at the Solstice, it seems forever for the sun to go down.
From Valley heat
great white ships rise
and ride the ridges,
buck canyons up
to pound with thunder
and dump with rain—
glorious downpours
I can smell
in the pines
and cedar duff
sixty miles away.
Wild bull calves we never knew
well-enough to brand
with months of rain,
creek too high to cross,
roads too wet to travel,
all gone to town now—
big enough to breed
their sisters yet to be
marked and aborted.
We thought the drought
was bad. But all the politics
and manipulated markets
yield to the variables
of Mother Nature’s bronc ride,
every jump, kick and surprise
without warning, never boring
when the weather gets her head
between her front legs.
As she warms up
to 113 degrees, we’ll see
what we’re made of.
We’re now on Mexican time: up at daylight and inside by eleven for lunch and a siesta. I am amazed how well the cattle, and especially the calves in the weaning pens, have managed to deal with the heat. Our ‘sip and dip’ has gotten plenty of use this past week, cools our flesh to the bone. Thank you Canadian Joe Hertz, fiddler for Cowboy Celtic, for your stone mason work!
drycrikjournal 