by Ethel Mortenson Davis
A hummingbird came
to the garden at sunrise,
close to my left shoulder,
then my face—a female Black-Chin.
She came for the sparkling droplets
glistening from my sprinkler—
a morning bath
in a parched land.
She presented her gift
as she took mine.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
a pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Art by Ethel Mortenson Davis, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
A great cat
stretches her
elongated muscles
in the morning light,
sending a yawn
rippling along
her wiry body,
paying little attention
to the scurrying ants
on her ground.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
Dance of an Iris
a photograph by Sonja Bingen
Iris in the Desert
a photograph by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Note: The time of Iris blooms is nearly done. In fertile southern Wisconsin the Iris dance in sunlight and the intensity of spring. In the high desert Irises, especially a profusion of Irises, is a miracle.
Filed under Art, Photography
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Once, when the creek
had swelled its banks in spring,
and I had run to meet its new boundaries
to build a raft again
that could carry me down the Little Sandy
toward lands unknown,
I was sidetracked by a patch
of blue and yellow violets—
too many to let go unnoticed,
found among the wet and shady places—
and I forgot about the countries unseen.
And in fist-fulls I came running,
sharing them with you—
and you received them well,
arranging them in glass jars,
teaching me to love
the spring beauties and things:
The funny-faced Holstein calves
and the timid chickadees
who came in December
to snatch your winter’s crumbs.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
A Photo Essay by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Leg Pollen Sack on a Honey Bee
Great Purple Hairstreak
Eggs of a Long-Tailed New Mexican Black Bird
Filed under Art, Essays, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
She had missed
the elk and rabbit
this morning.
She didn’t see
the grasses parted
where a trail
was apparent,
where rabbit brush
was trampled down
from the great bodies of elk.
But they watched her
as she walked by.
She unaware,
this morning,
of their presence.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
a pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Art by Ethel Mortenson Davis, Ethel Mortenson Davis
Snow came to Continental Divide yesterday and last night. Sometimes it was so thick you could not see the Zuni Mountains out the back window.
Ethel Mortenson Davis’s photograph of flowers blooming as snow fell
Up north in Wisconsin, where Sonja Bingen lives, spring is bursting with intensity.
Sonja Bingen’s photographs
Is the north becoming the south?
Filed under Art, Essays, Photography
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