Epaulets on his shoulders,
I remember the cocky strut
of the redwing blackbird
beneath the grain bucket
mornings when we saddled horses,
back when we had a pond,
wild ducks and nested cattails,
but not enough water
to watch it evaporate—
and I miss them, miss the
mallards come the gloaming
on whistling feathers
with bellyflop landings
to safely spend the night.
It’s all about water.
Posted in Poems 2025, poetry, Ranch Journal
Tagged cattails, poetry, pond, redwing blackbird, water
The telephone line goes cold;
birds tread it wherever it goes.
– William Stafford (“The Farm on the Great Plains”)
He was old, but younger than I am today,
digging earthworms for a rusty coffee can,
cane pole and cork bobber for the bass hole
on the Kaweah where he pumped water
for summer pasture before the Flood of ‘55
took it all, but memories, downstream.
In those days, we were rich with time to spend
on foolishness, watching water and bobber
in the warm morning’s sunshine. I call
back occasionally, but there is no ring
on the other end for anyone to answer,
no one left at home, no fish in the bass hole.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2020
Tagged birds, Kaweah River, photography, poetry, redwing blackbird, William Stafford
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