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 photograph by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Every year in one of our lilac bushes by our front gate, the long-tailed blackbirds that frequent our yard, along with orioles, hummingbirds, purple and yellow finches, sparrows, phoebes, western and mountain bluebirds, robins, ring necked and white winged doves, pinyon jays, and a bunch of others, build a nest at about eye level. Earlier I posted a photo of their eggs. This is a photo of the hatchlings that came from those eggs. We are always excited to see the new hatchlings with their beaks open, waiting for their parents to feed them. The day I took this photo, however, after the dogs and I came back from our daily walk into the Zuni Mountains, these hatchlings were gone. I came into the yard and the two parents dive bombed me and made a distressed fuss as if I was the reason their hatchlings were now missing. Every year the story seems to be the same. The ravens are hanging around the field on the Zuni side of our house, normally trying to get away from long-tailed blackbirds harassing them. Hawks circle in the sky. Snakes are not uncommon in New Mexico, and every year the hatchlings hatch, then, after awhile, disappear. This photo is the only evidence that they ever lived.
Filed under Art, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
On an early walk,
a large rattlesnake
lay on the road
warming himself
from the freezing night.
His large head contains
flesh-dissolving venom.
With hearts pounding
we walk in an opposite
direction, in a large circle,
away from him.
A second snake
looms on the road.
We don’t know
what he will do.
We can’t step
away from him.
Instead we must
embrace him,
do the dance
with him,
while looking
into his yellow eyes.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
a pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Art by Ethel Mortenson Davis, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography
a photo essay by Sonja Bingen
The storm rises
into the fires of sunset
air electric with coming storm
Filed under Art, Essays, Photography
I have gone
to the four corners canyon
to listen
for the song,
but it is silent,
except for the wind whooshing
through junipers.
Last night
great storm clouds gathered
in the south.
This morning, before light,
I woke to chanting—
A woman’s voice
below my window.
Note: Written after a long period of writer’s block.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
in too long
of an afternoon
eyes wait,
lost to the whirling, dark,
bitter,
apple-green sky
burdened black,
unaware
fields
suddenly
carried out to sea,
drowned green
in the white foam.
after,
new
songs emerge,
gasping,
bent
under
the newness.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The snowflakes that hit
the Patagonian glacier
take three-hundred years
before they are released–
released into fluid streams
that etch their way
to the bottom of the
great glacier,
breaking it’s back
before moving it out
Into the ocean.
There should be places
where no man
sets his foot.
The earth doesn’t seem
to be the right place
for man….
or
mankind does not seem
to fit the earth,
but other species know
how to live
with boundaries.
When there is scarcity,
other animals know never to reach
a population
greater than the resources.
Man is looking
to be released
from his own doing,
released from
his own glacier.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
fourwindowspress 