Tag Archives: weather

Beef

Lots of commentary on the cattle business lately with a focus on the price of beef. But relative to inflation, $20 will buy a cheeseburger, fries and a soda or a USDA Choice New York steak at Costco. What a deal!

Our 4-year drought (2012-2016) doesn’t seem that long ago when we had to cull some older bred cows for slaughter in order to feed the rest of our herd expensive hay. A good part of the reason why producing cow numbers are at a 75 year low. Though the media has its red meat theories, nobody mentions that the US population has more than doubled since 1951. This is simple to understand: supply and demand.

KEEPING SECRETS

How do they know, these old fat cows
that read a baggy sadness in my walk
among them checking irons as they pull

alfalfa stems apart to tongue green leaf
in the corral? The gates are set, waiting
for the truck to town. There is nothing

right about the moment, that they know—
little consolation in my voice, they eye me
suspiciously searching for details

in my muted gestures. If I told them
all I know of town, of auction rings
and rails, they would all revolt

for the brushy hills, lay fences down
to take their chances without water
through the summer—that I know.

-JCD (“Best of the Dry Years, 2012-2016”)

The three variables for the cattle business are weather, price and politics, any one which can reduce our once-a-year paycheck to a loss, but two or more can be an economic disaster—none of which have we, nor the government, any control over.

In the photo above, Robbin and I fed a few replacement heifers before the forecast Atmospheric River. The grass geminated last month has become short and spotty and we have to keep them in shape to cycle and breed when we turn the bulls out in two weeks—just part of the business.

As I write, it’s been raining overnight.

1st Calf 2025

As we’ve done every year, we’re recording our first calf of the season here to substantiate of our Age and Source verification for the USDA. Tag # 3362 is now a second calf heifer.

I’ve let the blog slip by with little or no posts lately while I’ve been working on a new collection of poetry, “Native Harmonies; ranch poems”. It’s been a stop and go project for the past year that I’ve pared down to about 90 poems now. Sean Sexton offered one of his paintings that he exhibited at 2025 National Poetry Gathering in Elko for the cover. Here’s my mock up:

It’s been a mild summer as the days are now getting shorter and cooler. Big Wind last week had me moving vehicles out from under trees, gale force winds Saturday while Phoenix was also getting blown away. Influenced by monsoon activity, August is our month for thunderstorms, lightning and wildfires. Looking forward to fall, and a chance for rain.

HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY

Summer heat intense enough
to forget the rainy days beyond
the blinding sheets of delirium

framed in flames. The trickle
of the creek shrinks each day
as young cows bring calves down

to shade and well-water
before we gather to wean—
first-calvers looking for relief,

yearning for those days of virginity,
of curious discovery free
from bovine responsibilities.

Never in this world the same,
yet no better mother than a cow—
Happy Mother’s Day!

TANGIBLE FANTASY

When the rains come right
and knee-deep green feed hides
beneath Fiddleneck in the flats,

we forget the bare, baked slopes
cut by dusty cow trails plunging
to the murmur of the diesel truck

spilling alfalfa flakes the length
of undressed pastures—lost bawling
calves and slow thin cows.

So blessed to have disremembered
the lean dry times, we believe
the miracle is normal, that Hera

and her daughters will set-up camp
and stay a fruitful future for man
and beast, creeks in the canyons—

a tangible fantasy for the thriving
when the rains come right
to change our way of thinking.

Snow on Sulphur





Snow comes off the mountain
on the backs of trucks,
white caps on compacts

like trophies
to melt on roads
into town—

cold hands
shoveled dirt driveways
steer downhill.

WE KNOW BETTER

We know better than to claim
success when the grass is belly-high
and Dry Creek runs year-round.

We know the fickle temperament
of the wild gods and goddesses
who have few rules and no obligations

to monied interests, no crusades
to justify their integrity: certain
dominion over man’s campaigns

to domesticate their nature
for a dollar—that will, in time, undermine
humanity’s conceit for much less.

ADDENDUM

Dim light above the kitchen table,
wet wedding rings beneath ceramic coffee cups,
shod horses fidget in the aluminum gooseneck
outside before daylight.

“Are Bud and Monte comin’?”
“Nope, just you and me, Babe,” he grins
showing teeth beneath his moustache.

“Any stars?” she asks. “It’s s’posed to rain,
you know, sometime today.”

“A few holes in the clouds is all,”
as he looks up at the ceiling.

“With a little luck
we ought to make it up the hill
before it gets slick,
get the cattle down
and be home by the fire
before it gets too wet.”

After a pause and long swallow, she asks,
“You know what day it is?”

“Thursday, I think”

“Is that all?” she lets trail on her way to the sink.
“Oh, I’ll be goddamned:

Happy Valentine’s Day!”

ON A GRAY DAY

1.
Crows circle,
coyotes skulk
and a Red Tail watches

on a bare oak branch
for a ground squirrel
to wake and warm

atop a rock at dawn.
Everybody’s hungry
in February.

2.
Cold marble ceiling,
precursor to another
stream of storms predicted

to test the levees,
erase the landscapes
of man’s mistakes,

but likely missing
a golden opportunity
for humanity.

3.
The imbalanced weight
of man’s achievements
and herded hostilities

wobbles the planet’s
tipsy equilibrium
between war and peace,

the struggle for power
over Nature
to right herself.

Half-Inch

Far from the advertised Atmospheric River forecast, we are grateful for the much needed moisture overnight. Just a sprinkle when Robbin took this photograph yesterday evening as sunshine leaked through the approaching clouds.

SUNDAY



Light rain like fog
gray in the canyon
closes the world away—

privacy to contemplate
the prolonged moment
that asks no questions

of the no one
you have become
among the mountains.