by Ethel Mortenson Davis

I shouldn’t have
come up over the bluff,
because that’s when
I saw the great expanse
of sky and clouds.

This morning, on my walk,
the face of the red mesa
looked cold,
and then
these extraordinary
fall clouds
beckoned me
to come up into them–

yes, taken up into
the sky.

But in a moment
my eye caught sight
of a coyote
padding along
the valley floor
almost the color
of the dirt and brush
around him,
bringing me back
to reality and hardness.

Stay hidden, coyote,
and step away
from man–
because where he steps
death is all around.


Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry

9 responses to “Day

  1. I sometimes find myself apologising to an animals, a tree, a bush, a flower for what humans have done and still do.

  2. eremophila

    Reblogged this on Eremophila's Musings and commented:
    Read this, and ponder how accurate it is. Then ensure you’re not part of the problem please.

  3. I find it fascinating to see this landscape through your eyes, Ethel. So foreign to me. I like the way you take us from the great expanse of sky to the footsteps of this coyote.
    The closing two lines came as a surprise for which I wasn’t prepared. perhaps that was your intention – the shock value; the alternative might have been to drop a hint about mankind’s cruelty earlier; or, maybe, to allude to the irony that the coyote itself will kill – albeit for its survival (which perhaps underlines your point).
    How about that? You’ve really started me thinking!

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