by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The stealth of migrations
move across the land
under cover of darkness,
moving in hundreds
and then thousands.
You told me
about your car lights
shining in a canyon
one night–
“More elk than
one could imagine,”
moving to the southern places
where canyons lap over canyons,
lands whose vastness is greater
than the mind can comprehend,
unlike the northern deer
that migrate further north
to find giant spruce trees
whose branches touch
the ground to make
a snowless, warm canopy
for the wintering.
You said, “The axe blade
is sharpened, ready
to chop the bone
at the joints.”
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