a photograph by Sonja Bingen
Wings
To Pat Fennell,
a fountain of information on hummingbirds
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
A thousand beats
per belly,
eating drops of nectar
to get you through
the great Sonoran Desert,
eating tiny flies
to get you
to Central America
or even
South America,
flying
the Gulf of Mexico
in a long day.
All I want to hear
before I die
are wings of hummingbirds.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
Hummingbird Drama
a photograph by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Continental Divide, New Mexico is located on a major migration route for hummingbirds. Ethel only keeps three feeders at our house because of the amount of work necessary. This a photo of one bird, but right now we have swarms of them. Wings whir; they dart and buzz; they fly off to nearby trees; they sit on our fence; then they return to the feeders. They often look like a moving cloud. Each feeder, if they are to be kept filled, requires five trips to where they are out of the house a day. We often have up to six species at the feeders, often quarreling, at once.
Filed under Art, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography
Makwa Fits You Good
by Thomas Davis
To Trevor Moeke
Makwa fits you good:
He wanders around the grounds,
Rolling like a meadow rolls,
Growling here and there
With the song of who he is
And greeting morning and evening skies
With the power of his presence.
His earth spirit
Speaks languages
Gathered from earth, wind, water, sky.
Walking in sunshine
Between startling whiteness
Of tepees that point poles
Toward a startling blue sky,
He smiles with white teeth
And laughs with a deepness
That shakes aspen leaves
And sets them to dancing
Even though there is no wind.
Note: Trevor Moeke is a Maori leader who is the current Co-Chair of the World Indigenous Nations Higher Education Consortium (www.win-hec.org). Makwa, in Anishinabe, means bear. This poem was written on the Shoney Reserve in Canada immediately after the meeting that formed WINHEC.
Filed under Poetry, Thomas Davis
The Best Gatherer
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
I remember you best
at blackberry time:
The best gatherer
of our time
who could out-pick
the Champion Blackberry King
with his shining buckets
and mounds upon
mounds
of the gems
shining
like your shining
eyes were,
dark, almost black.
I remember you best
when I go
into the woods
to gather berries,
reaching out
for the shining black
eyes
and seeing your brown,
strong hands again,
coming home
to show us
your treasures.
How good it felt
this blackberry time.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
Brother William, Maori Singer
by Thomas Davis
Twelve hawks soar in a circle,
Each wheeling interlocking into the next.
They soar higher and higher,
Dark wings part of summer blue sky,
Growing smaller as they climb
Above valley grasses,
Pines, and fluttering aspen leaves
Covering sides of hills,
Rising into symphony
Of ever lighter blue distance,
Ever climbing mountains.
Then, in a splinter of light,
Bird wing flashes white.
The world changes
While sky, mountains, trees
Live inside their own sense of time.
On the stage, wooden, outside,
Before a crowd of brown faces,
Maori laughed and sang
A storm of life
And eyes dancing in faces.
In the midst of song and laughter,
A slim, aging man stood in front of the singers.
He spoke of birds wheeling high in the distance of sky.
Note: This happened on the Stoney Reserve in Canada on the day that the World Indigenous Nations Higher Education Consortium was formed.
Filed under Poetry, Thomas Davis
Daughters and Sons
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
I remember
when our daughters
became “a certain age”
and left us—
not just in a physical way,
but from our hearts as well.
I was sure this was what
raising children was about—
children leave you at a certain age,
never to return.
But they did return and
made that full circle
back to us, but
with “certain stipulations.”
Our son left,
came back,
then left again,
angry.
We thought he would
never return,
but he did again
at his death:
Came back full circle
to say, I need you both.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
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