Tag Archives: black dog


by Ethel Mortenson Davis

I remember you
the last time,
when everything
I did grated on
and spilled
out of your eyes
onto the ground.

Even the black dog,
the one you carried
in your arms
out of that place,
tried to catch your
but you turned

I tried not to look at
the disappointment
that spilled
out over her eyes
onto the ground.


Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry

The Ministering

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

The dominant horse
acted queer:
Ran around in a circle
in his pasture,
finally resting near
a black clump
on the ground.

The black clump moved
every once in awhile.
It was the black dog
that ran wild
along our fence.
He had been shot
and had gotten
as far as the horses,
trying to get home.

What happened next
took my breath away.
The horse stayed
near the dog,
nuzzling with it’s soft lips,
going over and over it’s body
for a long period of time
until there was no movement.

© 2010, I Sleep Between the Moons of New Mexico


Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry


by Ethel Mortenson Davis

and new snow
last night.

Black dog
on white,
two miles
into the woods,
and we see
timber wolf tracks.

Then sister wolf
flashes past us,
a great roaring ball
of white and gray
whose size
dwarfs you,

But we are
not afraid.
Just in awe.

To see a glimpse
of you
is like a gift,
like an eagle
taking off
into the air,
and we are lifted up.

I see a surprise
smile on your face.


Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry