Guy

When I first saw him he was playing with a large pig

Then he tipped his hat to my wife

Then regaled us with talk of roping elk, riding elk and chasing burros

For only twenty something I think he was quite a guy

In fact I think his name was Guy

He could live here too and take a cowboy dip at the falls

Or he could be driving the crawler around the ranch fixing things

Or taking Belle out dancing and two-step, polka, waltz, schottische, pretzel

Or making a table or set of shelves with all those tools, or less tools

He could be drunk in a bar, staggering all over the place

Wrapped around the toilet after closing time

He could be getting a divorce from his Anglo wife or his Spanish one

He could be talking to cops because his son turned him in for child abuse

He could be crying like a baby because it is all so beautiful and yet so sad

He could be writing a story of how he dumped the 1010 off the back of the truck

Or drove it off the mesa with no brakes with the 1010 and wife aboard

Or lifted it with a crane with neighbors and cops everywhere

Or hugged the bulldozer and then the crane guy for good measure

Or picking peaches with Fernando and supporting apple branches with sticks

Or walking in the river bed looking at rocks, beautiful rocks

Or making art, rustic and textural, pouring bronze or melting glass

Or wondering where the next dollar was really coming from

And worrying whether he was taking too long or charging too much or too little

And  bringing children onto the land so they could scamper around day after day

All summer long

Or catching rattlesnakes with a long pole and loop, dropping them into the dynamite box

And watching the children dreaming of catching one themselves later that day

And hearing his daughter talk of how the hawk swooped down in a blur of feathers

As she stood by wondering “what the hell” as it tried to get the duck six feet away

Or watching the ducks in water as they freed up that tension in his chest

Just by being themselves and loving water by birthright

Or playing his electric guitar loud and long and feeling the music in his body

Or playing Leadbelly songs on a 12 string Stella

Or going to an iron pour in Denver and playing for everyone solo

As the molten metal was poured into moulds for bowling balls

And sent down the chute spraying sparks and glowing red-orange

Headed for the white pins made of ceramic mold

Or speaking Spanish all day long to his helper, learning about Mexico

And how difficult it is down there and how much poverty and crime

Robos and drogas, gubierno sin mucho ayuda

And how they took the railroad apart for the steel

Or working hard, sweat dripping, arms pushing and pulling

Hands manipulating, making , making, thinking , thinking

Stress and tolerances, level and plumb, straight and curved

All things leading towards a goal, a house, a fixture, a door, a shower

Working for a living like our lives depended  on it

Like a young cowboy, Guy, playing with a large pig

On a beautiful rented ranch above Folsom and east of Clayton

Just a small one, barely 20,000 acres, barely enough to make a living on

Ya gotta give us credit where credit is due

For playing with that pig, alone, with noone watching

Except for maybe a tourist or two or a lessor and his friend

Credit for knowing that a donkey can toss a lady in a creek

If you aren’t careful

Or a sunset is worth taking a camera to, worth pointing and shooting

Give us credit that we got that elk and butchered it and brought it home than lean year

Credit for telling his hunter friends they are full of shit

Cause they don’t know a rat turd from a pinon nut

Credit for tanning the hide or trying to

Credit for buying the gun and chasing the bastard down with it

And going half-crazy afterwards, like a man in war who just shot a guy

Yeah and for saying “Howdy, maam”  and tipping that hat to the lady

And deciding not to get wrapped around a toilet anymore

And learning how to help things cool off

And learning how to type

And knowing how to read a tape measure, by god, and not tossing it into the nearest drink

And write stuff that is important, somehow

The Windmill

Land's heart is creek;
Susurrous sounds of infinite eddies;
Spelling life, shape changing daily;
The place to take the  ducks
For soul regeneration and chest repair

Built heart being The Windmill
 and the Tower, pumping, again.....
Water and marking time in circular fashion

Do you know how hard it is to get four strong 30 foot 6 x 6s
And bolt on 2 x 10 cross braces, X's in Golden Mean ?
Carrying the turn of the century on our backs,
bonding with the craftsmen who designed gears and pitmans and
Babbit bearings, sucker rod and stuffing boxes,
back when cast iron was king, history turning to make way
For steel
do you know how hard it is to make a new "sail" ?
The old guy at the sheet metal place does,
"Do not bring me another one", says he,
"I had to cut those by hand and my hands hurt"

Do you know how to erect a 30 tower?Or climb one for that matter?
Well neither did I till 31 years ago.
Do you know how scary it is up there,
Begging the questions of death and disaster?
Well neither did I having given up rock climbing
After that episode with Monique up in Cape Breton.
...Bonding with the mast climbers of yore at sea,
borrowing their descriptions of what is happening
In the Wind.

And, cupful by cupful, breathe by breathe, whisper and gale;
the Windmill spins and groans, sounding for all intents and purposes
Like a whale
Dryland leviathan skeleton
Picturesque archetypal phenomenon;
water oozing from the pipe to feed the forests
"We" planted, quench the thirst and beat the drought.

The grown children remember it with chills and twinges
As they ruminate and visualize where they came from,
their memory spinner, Guardian and Constant.
Giant weather vane for all to see,
Perch for feathered friends in calm weather
They even told me so

And it is a monument; put on maps everywhere
Like Camel Rock or Morphy Lake
Like a natural spring; gotta know where they are.....
Like a watercress patch or a stand of ponderosas,
Like the old bulldozer with its front bucket,
Like a husband or a wife or child;
take photos at every chance as they are so beautiful
in this light and that

A mystery like a ship in the fog
A friend of many years who has watched you grow
And then grow old and you them.
Has been there for you and you for it.
Part of your life, like dandylions, blue flax, sunflowers
Part of your soul like windy days,  rain and water

Part of your work, like your shop, your truck or your children
Something you would sorely miss if they were gone
Tragic as you ponder what you did wrong along the way
Like that burro that died young; only 25
So many years being there and then the dying  silver-grey donkey
staring at you, leaning like a drunkard against the crawler
Seconds from the final fall that spelled the end
In ways only I, perhaps, will ever understand
Leaving a hole where  a whirring stood

They say it is hard to kill a Swede
and I say it is hard to kill a donkey
Hard to hit the bullseye, Co, they shoot at the little" o"
way up there; too tempting it seems,
like tormenting burros
And easy to take a windmill for granted
Thanks to Aermotor's tough design
Rural gift.......of water and ...to be...
The heart of the land and the friend of
The homesteader......Part of.......
The Land Ethic