I look to the ridges for clarity,
for a sign of an approaching storm
gathering somewhere north—
trace silhouetted skeletons
of drought-killed oaks, branched
like Challenge Butter bucks.
As my eyes escape the first waft
of chaos and claustrophobe,
I leave my flesh to rest among
all the old cowmen with nothing to do
but watch the learning process
over and over again.
The Natives retreated to the hills,
but at the top of mountain peaks,
there’s no place left to go.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2022
Thin starts lay limp as green fades to gray amid the brittle stalks of short-cropped dry the cows have missed as I open the gate ahead of several storms to search for Live Oak— stove wood heat with little ash prostrate since the 4-year drought branded in my mind— decomposing now before my eyes. Limbs ache with years bent to this ground chasing seasons of grass, but red skies at dawn reawakens the flesh.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2021, Ranch Journal
Bumper crop of acorns,
warm monsoon rains.
The redbud bloomed
confused, drawing butterflies
for weeks—the season’s
last hatch of Monarchs
swarming crimson, orange
and black-trimmed fairies
to the front door.
All a sign of something
unusual, uniquely beautiful—
that superfluous imbalance
charged to an unknown
future—a fleeting gift
to remember the gods
before leaving us
four years dry and begging
for something normal.
Weekly Photo Challenge: “Weightless” Monarchs
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2016, Ranch Journal
Tagged Acorns, Drought, gods, Monarch Butterfly, Redbud, signs, weekly-photo-challenge
First sign of a convoy at dawn
scout the sky eastward, small raft
of red on blue, I photograph
a promise of rain—then check
the Internet to bolster old saws
for shepherds and sailors
at the mercy of fickle gods
of weather and wonder
if our lover has returned—
how long will she stay?
Kindling split, we will be warm,
ignite the fire, cut wood and
carry ashes out until spring.
We are ready and prepared
to say goodbye to drought.
The pair of eagles
returning early to ride
our foothill thermals
elicits surprise:
‘what do they know that we don’t?’
we agree to say.
No water, no place
to fish in a four-year drought—
it must be something.
My brother, the old farmer, says
that it’s about over, that out
in the Valley where I seldom stray,
brand new drilling rigs rise
every two miles above the orchards,
out of corn fields reaching past
underground rivers that have lost
their way—like locusts, like aliens
descended to pound and perforate
the earth with steel, pneumatic
proboscises, they shine
through sun and starlight.
In the garden, the damp earth
moves, as if alive, with tree frogs
and toads traveling the shade
from flower leaf to vegetable
like a plague, like a sign
at the end of farming
or this drought, or for El Niño rains?
All the wishing at the wellhead
doesn’t matter to a tree frog.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2015, Ranch Journal
Tagged El Niño, old farmers, signs, tree frogs, water wells, well drilling rigs
March 10, 2014
Riding rafts of red above
clouds of dust,
we could breathe for a moment.
Posted in Haiku 2015, Photographs, Ranch Journal
Tagged Drought, Dry Creek, haiku, photographs, poetry, rain, red sky, signs, weather
My brown-skinned girl,
each dusty draw
seems softer, shadows
linger longer at the dawn
as the sun moves south
down ridgelines.
I begin to hear
the faint sound
of a light rain, early
on the roof—the musty
smell of it awakening
a primal surge of new life
for old veins on guard
for the slightest sign
telegraphed ahead
of a train in my mind
mesmerized by rivulets
finding their own way
to the creek running
into spring. Cottonwoods’
first yellow leaves
gathered by rolling gusts
up and down canyon—
you say you feel it too.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2014
Tagged August, Butchart Gardens, Drought, Dry Creek, photographs, poetry, rain, signs, weather
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