We just passed the autumnal equinox. The first day of fall arrives in a buttery flat light spread over dry fields and ridges to the north. Wisps of sweet clouds lose their pinkness by the minute, turn grey then white as the sun rises out of the east like a laser cutting a flaming horizon from dark timber, then headlong brightening the valley, planting kisses here and there among the hills.
 |
| First snow, irrigated fields still green |
Where is my love in this quiet moment before the day unfolds in the rumble of grain trucks, the rattle of stock trailers, the bawling of the neighbor's cattle at weaning time? He is slumbering under covers made heavier and warmer now that nights are longer and freeze more often than not. For sleep, I am thankful.
 |
| Here she comes, harvest moon |
We have to move our cows and calves off the prairie early this year. It is no surprise, but we were holding out hope that we might be able to make it to early November, like we usually do. I’m trying not to think about it too much, or ask too many questions. We have options. I’m letting my pardner figure them out.
 |
| Sibling spin - grandkids |
After the month-long beef harvest with deliveries and communications,
we try to rest more and do less for a while. The customers are kind and
thoughtful and varied and they jump into the dance of harvest, reassuring us
they will be there at the ready on delivery day, meeting us with words of
thanks and encouragement, taking interest and sharing stories from their lives.
And I am thankful for safe travels; for our adult children
unloading heavy boxes, taking payments and keeping track, and arranging a
delicious dinner of Thai take-out.
 |
| Thank you carriers of heavy boxes |
We try to do less and rest more. We imagine a lull in the ever-long list of tasks and projects and before the hay hauling and the cattle trailing begin, we go to the canyon to see if the bears and deer and turkeys have left us any pears. We get a late start and drive down in the dusk through an eerie landscape of parched rangeland. The first real rain in four months has fallen just a few days ago, but you can't even tell, and I feet a familiar weight on my chest and a familiar pit in my stomach.
 |
| Storm clouds, hope they bring rain |
We unload in the dark
and we check the spring – a trickle still fills the cistern. We make a fire
in the woodstove and we go out in the night and sit silently for a while on the
edge of the porch, watching strange dimpled clouds arriving out of the east.
 |
| Dog tamer |
We walk out into the orchard to look at the trees. The full moon has yet to crest the eastern rim, but in the dark lee of the river bottom we can still make out our faint shadows on the ground. We turn around and stare at high western rims already bathed in a near-daylight that edges towards us, casting draws and benches in stark relief.
 |
| Little farm house in the valley - home place |
As I look up at the towering rocks, for a moment I feel cradled inside a circle of strong brothers. But a tumult of emotion overtakes me, first like salt
water knocking me down and dragging me across a rocky beach, and then the river gripping me in a frothy rapid and spitting me out into a gentle curling eddy. For not feeling estranged from beauty, I am
thankful.
 |
| Sedona and Chester |
And we stand there under the trees, apart from each other, quietly gazing on everything around us. Finally, we talk to one another, and he tells me things I never heard before. And I listen, and my love listens back, and I am thankful.
 |
| Woody Guthrie Poem, excerpt |
From Sara at Magpie Ranch, home of Bunchgrass Beef
 |
| Dirty faces - Sara and Abby |
