photographs by Sonja Bingen
The Yellow Eyes
by Thomas Davis
1
The whiteness wailed with wind-swept waves of snow.
Upon the ice, a dozen miles from land,
The huge man walked into the vertigo
Of emptiness and bitter cold that spanned
Horizons darkening into a night
Intense with clouds that suffocated light.
He heard the wolf before he saw its eyes
Gleamed yellow in accumulating dark.
Its panting separated from the cries
Inside the wind so subtly that the spark
Of fear that nearly made his legs give way
Seemed like the rhythm of the dying day.
The great wolf, coat as black as anthracite,
Loomed like a shadow from a stinging wave
Of snow, a darkness darker than the night,
A vision dredged from dreams born in a grave.
A heavy tiredness weighed inside the man.
The wolf kept eyes upon the path he ran.
As hours passed hours the universe became
A movement shared between the man and wolf.
The storm died down. At dawn a yellow flame
Along the far horizon’s edge unveiled a roof
Of clouds that felt as if they were a vice
Pressed down upon the endless miles of ice.
The man kept staring at the white expanse
Stretched endlessly away from where they were.
He felt his spirit caught inside a trance
Transforming time into a senseless blur
Of wolf breath, gusts of wind, and running feet
Staccatoed pulsing through his heart’s strained beat.
As evening gathered up the winter skies,
The great wolf growled and shocked the man aware.
The yellow eyes looked deep into his eyes.
The storm swirled deep inside the untamed stare.
He stopped. The wolf stopped, growled so low
The storm stirred winds and stinging waves of snow—
And then the wolf was gone into the trees
That forested the hills above the rocky shore.
Alone, but near to land, still not at ease,
He walked toward the cedars bent before
Him like a haven from the plains of white
As suddenly the ice was bathed in light.
2
Years later, sitting by a council fire
As dancers danced the heartbeat of the drum,
A wailing howl rose from the forest, dire
As if the ending of the world had come.
The big man stood, the council’s patriarch,
And walked, without a word, into the dark.
Filed under Poetry, Thomas Davis
Wings
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
There is a part
of me
that walks and talks and sees,
but then there is
another one
that has parts of wings:
Wings that take me
to the highest green cliff,
then drops me to the sea
to catch a ride on the back
of the dragonfly
as he crosses the land—
wings
that take me
to the farthest planet,
the red one,
then pulls me
back to the forest
where green moss
clings to the north side
of trees
in winter’s cascade
of blue shadows on snow and sparkling sun.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
Overview of Chaco Canyon Ruins
a photograph by Alazanto, Kevin Davis, our son
Filed under Art, Photography
Winter Sentinel on a Hilltop
a photograph by Sonja Bingen, our daughter
Filed under Art, Photography
Carver of Birds
He sank into the raven’s eyes.
Their surface sheen reflected snow
Back at the whiteness of the skies.
A concave warp of vertigo
Unshrouded mice in tunnels cached
From clawing eyes that beaked black wings
Above the scurrying that snatched
Blood past the raven’s ravenings.
Inside his heart black feathers stirred
Into his hands, his human life.
A crucible croaked from the bird,
Its blood inside his blood a knife
That tunneled black rimmed raven eyes
Into a cedar block that pulsed with wings
And raucous swells of clawing cries
That made the forest’s stillness sing.
He shrugged his spirit from the bird
And left it listening to snow.
He walked through darkness, undeterred
By failing light, the silver glow
Of moonlight through the limbs of trees.
Outside the house he stopped and stared
At birds he’d carved into the eaves.
In rooms, on fence posts wings were flared
As birdsong choired cacophony
Into the silence of the night.
The house moved, spirit-fantasy
Of birds eternally in flight.
Note: This poet is a companion to “Encounter with a Gray Morph Owl.” The idea came from an essay by Norbert Blei in “Door Way, the People in the Landscape.”
Filed under Poetry, Thomas Davis
Martin Luther King
by Phoebe Wood, our granddaughter
Note: We posted this watercolor earlier, but Phoebe added finishing touches for Martin Luther King Day. This is the day after, but we just received the finished art work, so decided to post it now.
Filed under Art
Kinship
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
I’ve come again
to watch your woods,
snow up to my thighs,
winds flying
across the tops of trees—
like when I was little.
On windy days
I would run
into the woods
and listen to the wind
roaring across the tops
of trees,
but stillness would
be beneath.
I think of trees
as family,
kin,
those that are
always there,
steel cores,
centurions
that guard us
from all the clamor
at the top,
the quiet and stillness
beneath,
close family.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
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