Tag Archives: dogs

Where We Walk in Potawatomi Every Morning

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A photograph by Sonja Bingen after her walk with her mother and father in Potawatomi State Park a mile from our house in Sturgeon Bay, the place where Ethel and I walk with our dogs, Juno and Pax, every morning even in January and February.


Filed under Photography, Uncategorized

A New Year

by Thomas Davis

The old year hung behind a hill
that sang with birds and bears and animals
as numerous as water plummeting over black rock
to a canyon far below a granite cliff.

The new year, over the hill, was shrouded in fog,
whiteness obscuring dark shapes
that could almost be made out inside the hint of brightness
from a sun that could not be seen.

We walked into the mountains with our two dogs,
the old year on the hill behind us,
the new year over the hill in front of us,

and we listened to the singing of the old year hill
and wondered why we have to keep going on
into a fog that could hold miracles
or terrors
or a continuation of rich songs now behind us.


Filed under poems, Poetry, Uncategorized


by Ethel Mortenson Davis

The rain yields
to the drying wind,
trilliums ceasing,
forget-me-nots thriving,

the dogs loving
the walk in the morning rain.
The afternoon sun
puts the old dog to sleep.

the flickering light
will lock
the fawn in hiding
in the meadow grasses
in the deep forest.


Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, poems, Poetry

Night Ride

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

Come with me,
down where the trees are,
for there is a line of sky
without clouds,
and soon the earth
will be the color of red honey.

Come with me,
for there is enough feed
for the horses,
and when we stop to sleep
we’ll keep the dogs close
to warm us.

Come with me,
for the songs of the Ancients
are calling.
Orion is straight above our heads,
and we must make
this night’s journey.


Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry

Little did I know a pack of wild dogs was trying to slip up on me

a photograph by Alazanto, Kevin Davis, our son

Little did I know a pack of wild dogs was trying to sneak up on me

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Filed under Art, Photography


by Ethel Mortenson Davis

All week
the rabbit
came to the fence.

The dogs barked
at first,
then gave up.

The rabbit was
covered in tumors,
one large one covering
the side of his face
with bulging eye.

The last day
it cried in pain.

One of the dogs
went over the fence
and snapped it’s neck,

it’s message to us


Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry


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

The Road

by Ethel Mortenson Davis

Because this night
is so cold and beautiful
with a thin-lipped moon
just above the horizon,
we will walk the road.

The road over there–
that is waiting,
the one that climbs
up into the Zuni Mountains.

A man once said
that my poems
were only scratches on paper.

The light is getting late,
and the dogs are anxious.
The poems are waiting out there
in the wildness
to say and be,



Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry