A Photo Essay by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Leg Pollen Sack on a Honey Bee
Great Purple Hairstreak
Eggs of a Long-Tailed New Mexican Black Bird
Category Archives: Ethel Mortenson Davis
Presence
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
She had missed
the elk and rabbit
this morning.
She didn’t see
the grasses parted
where a trail
was apparent,
where rabbit brush
was trampled down
from the great bodies of elk.
But they watched her
as she walked by.
She unaware,
this morning,
of their presence.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
Origins
a pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Art by Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography
Calliope Hummingbird and Circles
a pastel and poem by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Circles
When I drive
through the desert,
I keep the windows rolled down
and usually hear a few notes
from the meadow lark.
New Mexico is full of bird life.
This morning, after last night’s shower,
I heard the clicks
of the Rufus hummingbird
through my car’s open window-
a metallic pinging sound-
like electric highline wires make
when you stand under them.
The hummingbird kisses
the delicate circuits
of the eco-systems.
In the north
the snowmobiles run
the gray wolf to exhaustion.
Once the gray wolf
was chased with dog sleds
or snow-shoes
and had a chance
to escape.
The wolf bites at his body
where the bullet enters,
shattering his flesh and bone,
shattering the delicate circles of life.
Filed under Art, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
Stone Child
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Where were you
when they took her
from me?
Stone Child,
I will give you
lips to speak with.
Where were you
When they tortured
And killed her?
Stone Child,
I will give you
eyes to see with.
Where were you
when they threw her
out on the desert?
Stone Child,
I will give you
ears to hear with.
Where were you?
Stone Child,
I will give you
wings to leave this world.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
Storm Clouds Over the High Desert
a photograph by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography
Spring
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The perfumed night
comes like a thief.
There is hardly time
to turn
to see his face,
and like some
ancient shaman
he sends my head spinning
into a sweet,
magnetic spell.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
Gangs
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The local people say,
don’t walk out in the wilderness
unless you carry a gun,
because of large predators
and wild dogs—
dogs turned loose
in the desert, abused and neglected.
Now in the hundreds of thousands,
they pack up
to find food and survive.
They kill elk and cattle,
and people—
a man in his fifties.
Children abused
And neglected
join gangs in order to survive.
In order to live—
they kill people.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography, Poetry
