Category Archives: Ethel Mortenson Davis

Hatchlings

a photograph by Ethel Mortenson Davis

Every year in one of our lilac bushes by our front gate, the long-tailed blackbirds that frequent our yard, along with orioles, hummingbirds, purple and yellow finches, sparrows, phoebes, western and mountain bluebirds, robins, ring necked and white winged doves, pinyon jays, and a bunch of others, build a nest at about eye level. Earlier I posted a photo of their eggs. This is a photo of the hatchlings that came from those eggs. We are always excited to see the new hatchlings with their beaks open, waiting for their parents to feed them. The day I took this photo, however, after the dogs and I came back from our daily walk into the Zuni Mountains, these hatchlings were gone. I came into the yard and the two parents dive bombed me and made a distressed fuss as if I was the reason their hatchlings were now missing. Every year the story seems to be the same. The ravens are hanging around the field on the Zuni side of our house, normally trying to get away from long-tailed blackbirds harassing them. Hawks circle in the sky. Snakes are not uncommon in New Mexico, and every year the hatchlings hatch, then, after awhile, disappear. This photo is the only evidence that they ever lived.

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Cancer

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

On an early walk,
a large rattlesnake
lay on the road
warming himself
from the freezing night.

His large head contains
flesh-dissolving venom.

With hearts pounding
we walk in an opposite
direction, in a large circle,
away from him.

A second snake
looms on the road.
We don’t know
what he will do.

We can’t step
away from him.

Instead we must
embrace him,
do the dance
with him,
while looking
into his yellow eyes.

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New Mexico

a pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis

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Listening For the Song

I have gone
to the four corners canyon
to listen
for the song,

but it is silent,
except for the wind whooshing
through junipers.

Last night
great storm clouds gathered
in the south.

This morning, before light,
I woke to chanting—
A woman’s voice
below my window.

Note: Written after a long period of writer’s block.

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Storm

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

in too long
of an afternoon
eyes wait,
lost to the whirling, dark,
bitter,
apple-green sky
burdened black,

unaware
fields
suddenly
carried out to sea,
drowned green
in the white foam.

after,
new
songs emerge,
gasping,

bent
under
the newness.

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Annishinabe Warrior

a pastel drawing by Ethel Mortenson Davis

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Patagonian Glacier

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

The snowflakes that hit
the Patagonian glacier
take three-hundred years
before they are released–

released into fluid streams
that etch their way
to the bottom of the
great glacier,
breaking it’s back
before moving it out
Into the ocean.

There should be places
where no man
sets his foot.
The earth doesn’t seem
to be the right place
for man….
or
mankind does not seem
to fit the earth,

but other species know
how to live
with boundaries.
When there is scarcity,
other animals know never to reach
a population
greater than the resources.

Man is looking
to be released
from his own doing,
released from
his own glacier.

© I Sleep Between the Moons of New Mexico, 2010

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Terra

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

A great cat
stretches her
elongated muscles
in the morning light,
sending a yawn
rippling along
her wiry body,
paying little attention
to the scurrying ants
on her ground.

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The Booth

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

Our son would not last
another night.

We stopped to have coffee
at a corner restaurant.
The woman in the booth
next to us said,

“Lemar, I told you
to sit down and shut up,
or I’ll slap you
up the side of your head.”

The little boy sat down
and then stood up,
not knowing what to do.

Finally he sat down.

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Reflections of a Country Girl for her Mother

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

Once, when the creek
had swelled its banks in spring,
and I had run to meet its new boundaries
to build a raft again
that could carry me down the Little Sandy
toward lands unknown,
I was sidetracked by a patch
of blue and yellow violets—
too many to let go unnoticed,
found among the wet and shady places—
and I forgot about the countries unseen.

And in fist-fulls I came running,
sharing them with you—
and you received them well,
arranging them in glass jars,
teaching me to love
the spring beauties and things:
The funny-faced Holstein calves
and the timid chickadees
who came in December
to snatch your winter’s crumbs.

© 2011 White Ermine Across Her Shoulders

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