Calm skies, sunlight in the pines
at the north edge of the park, Roadrunner stopping
just so he can start again
at the pace of surprise to patrol
the stones shaded by
mesquites along the wash. How did
it all begin? With a flash from stormy nothings
or the fabled word whose meaning
was beginnings? The lizard
next to the lantana looks
old enough to know and too preoccupied
to care. Such busy shadows
out where two fledgling thrashers learn
to be themselves and creation placed
quail among the sparrows with a hummingbird
perched on the minute hand
of two PM. Such precision
couldn’t come from chance. Study how
the verdin weaves a nest, the stealth
by which a Cooper’s hawk becomes invisible
and the casual demeanor
of the coyote who this morning threaded
himself through a gap in a fence
and colonized the light. Maybe the plan
was not to have a plan
and let earth, wind and fire argue
among themselves until
unease and earthquakes had their way
and it was called good. Doves holding
to an ocotillo branch, Red-tailed hawk
holding to the sky, deserts
shading into forest, rain on its toes
and thunder in the clouds. Too much
for one god to consider. And with worlds
birthing worlds no end
to it. Cold moon, burning stars, thirsty
javelina tramping downhill
to drink. And what
of spirits, were they the reason for us all
or just an afterthought
to make of night a dark terrain where owls
decorate the ground with bones.
They mark the way
a soul goes when it’s tired
and needs another story to explain
what binds it to the Earth. Flies
for the nighthawks, trees for the fires,
deer for the lions, monsoons
to quench the thirst that makes the desert
shine. It’s dry
but beautiful this time
of year, ashes on the mountainside
at dusk, new flight, old bones
and insects for the woodpecker
who are nestled so darkly in trees they believe
he will never find them.
.
David Chorlton
.