Owlcast
Contents:
Mysteries
Springtime on the Road to Sells
Last Dream at Mesa’s Edge
An Aria for Ghost Towns
Once Upon a House
Night Flight
Radiation Dream
Owlcast
Rear View
On the Job
Spiritrunner
Desertology
Letting Summer In
Octavio
Beth
Migration Dream
Rewriting the Border
Mojave
Sun Rising
A Trail Remembers
Mysteries
About faith they were never wrong, the desert
angels. Black clouds
above the mission church, an owl
at night for each departing soul
and prayers for rain ride the thermals
every day. An echo, echo
marks the closing
of the wooden door as footprints
leave a dusty trail to midnight. Skunk time,
bats are saints flying in sacred space
and ringtails find a way
to bind their tails around belief.
Darkness is the miracle
that makes miracles
complete: the crops smile again, roadkill
comes back to life and inside
old adobe walls the organ plays without
the hands of a musician. Listen:
the notes
are walking on their toes
uphill on the stony trail
to be closer to the stars.
Springtime on the Road to Sells
Marigolds, globe mallow, shadow
of a hawk, and there goes a runner racing back
in time to before
the border knew what it divided.
History’s in bloom:
one country, two countries, no
country at all, just the land
speaking back to those
who live upon it. And saguaros
aren’t sure what
to believe in, earth or
holy orders or the rain. Border guards
on duty, watching for the wind
to make a run for freedom.
A few miles more
to where the journey ends
at a water tank
and a mockingbird so happy
the sky pours from its throat
as it sings until darkness
and then
it ascends
to drink from the moon when it’s full.
Last Dream at Mesa’s Edge
The sun keeps time
but it’s lazy. Walls built of dust,
corn that prays for rain, and the chain
that holds the wind to a roof.
Nobody admits to being home
when they open their doors. It’s lonely this close
to the sky.
The clouds remember
when the church was built that now is returning
to earth; saints wailing
under moonlight, the last priest’s cries
trapped in the tower, and his vestments
shredded by eagles
for a nest. Potshards
underfoot, every step
is a step away from treading air, from
walking on light to the future.
An Aria for Ghost Towns
Clouds of autumn sunshine. A high C
from where a music hall
once stood, a loose gate swings
from a fencepost. What a time it was
when the creek sang softly
and the windows were open all night in the cribs.
No roof on the jailhouse,
no walls at the hotel,
nothing for sale at the general store,
no books in the schoolroom.
Sparrows on the church steps, Turkey Vultures
circling down like angels
come to purify
the men
coated in the darkness
they brought out from the mine
before going to the evening’s chosen girl.
Deer tracks. A fox on the path. Stars
flowing overhead
and the soprano moon singing
only of the past.
Once Upon a House
A summer night, water flowing
through the cooler at the window on the west side
and the fan blowing east to the kitchen.
All the windows open. Radio
tuned to starlight;
it might really
have happened like this, beginning
in the bedroom when
Mrs. gave permission to her husband
and he knew there was
no cure. Little traffic
on McDowell, less
along Third Avenue
and no one walking on Palm Lane
to hear the second shot.
In the wooden shed behind the house, any job
unfinished had to stay that way.
Hammer, hacksaw, work bench all
lay quietly as if
to dream, and even
the mirror was blinded.
Night Flight
Two hours of the year to go
and one step from the back door into darkness.
Quiet except
for trial fireworks as the mountain
counts down. Time on a tightrope.
Across the wash a few windows
still awake and streetlamps on their toes
straining for a view into the future.
There’s an owl
perching in the yard
and when her moment comes
she flies at barely shoulder height,
dipping first then rising,
on the way
to where spirits meet
with a wingspan twelve months wide.
Radiation Dream
The sky is floating through a room equipped
with moving parts that glide
without a sound; screens
displaying numbers that relate
to the position a resting body takes while
beams are focused on places
eyes can’t reach. The world outside rolls over
in its sleep
until the power brings the sun
to life. An owl passes from the dark
to the bough on which she rests to address
the mysteries, calling for the agents
of destruction to turn to healing
and connect the sleeping
to the waking world.
A hawk’s eye circles
over open space. A diagram appears
on screen. She fixes her attention
on the far below. The ring of parts moves gracefully
around and around. Wings angled,
she comes down from the sun to Earth, electricity
in flight.
Blue heron, Laughing falcon, melanoma,
alligator, pocket mouse, fruit bat, Harpy eagle,
free-tailed bat, Scott’s oriole, lymphoma, Black-
tailed rattlesnake, jaguar, mountain
lion, and sometimes
it seems that cancers
are the life force in the universe with
the unsuspecting simply
in their way. Lie still,
the moon is on
its circle course. This room is where
a slender thread becomes slow lightning.
Owlcast
Here’s what we need to know today: the owls are well.
It’s mating season and they’re calling
close to home. Wings wide
beside the streetlamp, sudden glow
and plumage pale. There has to be
a house fire somewhere for the morning news,
has to be a presidential outburst
better suited
to a prime time sitcom
built around dysfunctionality.
New moon. Spirit voices. Midnight’s meditation.
Morning and a shower
of goldfinches out of the sun, first light
moving barefoot down the street and yesterday’s
headlines fading in the clouds.
There’s a war
and there’s a cease-fire, a scandal
breaking with high crimes
in low places. It’s rush hour, the traffic lights
are blinking: left-wing, right-wing, and the hawks
who roost beside the golf course
have a wing for each side
but they’re gliding
above it all, gracefully intent
on catching prey while foreign policy
becomes more foreign and executive orders
blow coast to coast in a storm. It’s a Madison Avenue
country with a Wall Street appetite
and news blowing in from all directions.
Fire, flood, deportation,
give me tariffs or give me
a voice from the spirit world, something soft
as feathers calling up the day.
Rear View
Here’s a handful of sunset to savor,
a taste of last light
that will last until dawn,
a few inches of lightning
and a rain scented leaf for a keepsake.
Here’s a minute preserved
from the past,
a raindrop that fell
in the last summer storm, and a glass
full of fog from midwinter. Here’s a bone
washed clean of moonlight
and repeating all night a few bars
from a mockingbird’s song.
There’s space enough
between what’s true
and false for a comet
or a dream to pass, wind running behind,
its cheeks puffed full with stars.
On the Job
Late glow on the slopes, desert streaming
between the ridgeline
and the streets below, Friday afternoon,
T-shirts spotted with the stains
a day’s work leaves behind
and cashiers
at the supermarket scanning
what the weekend needs. Mourning doves
for restfulness, grackles for
opportunism and he who all day
wheels the carts
stacks another line to steer
back to the entranceway. So much
to be done: bread to bake and orders
to compile, restrooms to be cleaned
and a country to be run. A painter
splashed white is picking
up fruit,
a man dressed in black
casually steps between coffee
and the cookie shelves with a sidearm strapped
conspicuously at his side. So much
to be done:
wash the floors, make
appointments, secure domestic peace
and spray the fruit to keep it fresh. Almost
Saturday, but there’s work
for the workers to do even when the sunlight
looks nervous. No rest
for the doctors, mechanics, plumbers
and all
who believe that even
a rudderless ship reaches port in a storm.
Spiritrunner
Another day begins to sag
and suddenly
he’s here, looking both ways on the run and happy
as sunlight soaking into
early summer.
The Zuni see him
bringing rain, the Maya knew he gave his brightest
plumage to the quetzal, to Mexico
he brings the good luck America
would deny. His footprints in the dust
lead away from evil.
He’s earthy, sacred,
draws latent thoughts from hiding
and makes them run, run, run
so fast no witches
can keep up. Two twenty-eight in the afternoon,
he’s a backyard spirit
chasing memories away
to make space for living now.
He’s patient, fast,
won’t give up and has a sense of humor to strip
unworthy presidents of
their hubris.
Many mornings
he parts the feathers on his back to let
the daylight warm him. On the stony front yard
beside the ocotillo his presence is divine
on humble ground
until he runs
where even spirits
have to hunt. And with a good day’s life accomplished
he returns to dream
the feathered dream of those
who are beautiful and yet uninterested
in superficiality. No boasts,
no falsehoods, nobody
to deceive, just the modest reassurance that come
storms he can outrun them and carry
shreds of lightning
in his beak.
Desertology
A light wind blows the sunlight up and over
the mountain.
Dusty morning.
No clear view
of the peaks to the east. The Sunday papers
are waking up on driveways
but the desert cares more
about coyote scat,
javelina tracks
and the breeze as a breath of sincerity
amid a windstorm of lies.
*
About the worded world
the mesquites know
not a thing, and neither does last light
offer insight. It trembles a little
on the ridgeline and begins its descent into
the underworld,
safe from the stars
and sweeping flights
of nighthawks, still searching for the question
daylight is the answer to.
Letting Summer In
Dry heat scratching at the door,
summer waking up, the afternoon
going down to peaceful waters far away
and black sunlight
moving around the cul-de-sac
whose only exit leads back to the world
trouble come, trouble go, and discount
at the store one day
a month:
ten percent off sadness
no questions asked, no regrets, a small chance
of rain ahead
and thunder at the edges of creation.
Inches into dusk, the backyard swing
hooked to the horns
of the moon
with a handful of today
to scatter for the flicker in the morning
and so restore balance,
cancel legislation
that howled when it was signed. After daylight
forgets what it has seen, float into sleep
on the day’s final sigh, cheek to the pillow
ear to the sky.
Octavio
He’s a thimbleful of jaguar mixed
with centuries of housecat.
Wears sleep as a disguise
suggesting domesticity, but once the clock
between his eyes ticks daylight
he wants and wants.
Sunlight on the mountain,
kibble in his dish, white bread
on the table, he’ll eat
anybody’s breakfast when the window
blinds are raised. Postprandially resting
with finches in focus
he adjusts the flow of his spine
and leaps to where their feeder hangs
on the safer side of glass.
Race from wall to wall, complain enough
is not enough by chewing
magazines as though they grew in jungles
and investigate
any open drawer or door to where
he’s not allowed. Breakages
are part of his identity, the collateral damage
of being alive. He must
be dreaming when he’s curled into a question
mark of fur, must remember
the unrecorded months
before unsheathing his claws to snag
each passing day as though
time were meant to bleed.
Beth
Cloudlight on the ridgeline, dust
yellowing below, blue wind
in all directions and a blind spot where
the sun should be. It’s been six months
since anybody saw the lady
whose mind escaped her when she fell
and the turquoise car in her driveway
is the only sign
of life today. She used to sit
outside and chat, took her dog a block
and back, complained a little
or a lot – it always was the same – and when
she came home from being cared for
turned a monsoon’s shade of mean.
Some days another car
parks next to hers, some days the silence
that surrounds her house
cries out for understanding. It must
be comfortable living
with air conditioning and cats, window blinds
down, listening for
a storm to break and rain
to be delivered to her door in cups
just large enough for her to stir some thunder in.
Migration Dream
Ninety-eight degrees and a grosbeak
looking in the back window; nine AM with no way back
from dreaming when the solid world
alights on a branch so slender
it bends to the will
of the sun. A scene directly from
the spirit world: a mixed flock
leaving mountains behind
gracefully scattered, grouped in such
variety the light could not identify them,
they winged with dusk
in sight and pulled a tree
uprooted, branches held by beaks,
with majesty across the sky.
Waking on the flyway,
migration beginning, waiting
for monsoon thunder
while daily highs climb from
seeing to distraction and
the orange flash of one
bird among the many
on their way
pulling sunshine up by the roots.
Rewriting the Border
It’s doves and thorns and sunsets
all the way into night, and blue mountains
float away at dusk. The border
isn’t what it used to be, no
Spanish is the Lovin’ Tongue or Marty Robbins
riding out of El Paso. Used to be
a line between the cowboy sky
and shops whose colors overflow
to make tourists feel as happy
as they couldn’t be at home. A hawk still hovers
with each wing in a different country
and ravens cross over with ease when they
dip and dive for joy, but there are
no visas for the jaguars
drawn by the scent of survival. Twenty pesos
for a dollar, undocumented sunlight,
new lives for old and corridos
from the radio playing
on an August roof in Phoenix. Taco Tuesday
in El Norte, deportation
on the menu every day. A flag of wind
still flying west of Lukeville, hammer tap
in a mechanic’s workshop, trucks
with hearts of steel between
Brownsville and Tijuana, highway never
sleeping, flan for dessert. A family lost
and a Rufous-capped warbler
in southern Arizona, slow river
leading a line of cheap labor
to the interstate; wasn’t that a time
when water was the passport
for anybody carrying their first home
in their pockets. Cheap labor on the move,
supply and demand, a cupful of rain
for a day digging fields. A trogon
calling from the oaks and sycamores. Summer
is his time before the sky opens;
fly south, fly north, never fly at all
for fear that dreams
come only in translation.
Mojave
A snake curled beside a trail
bathes his scales in late summer light.
Sun breaking through
morning clouds, it’s a life
left alone among rocks
with a storm in the eyes
but breathing the calm of day
with bone against bone all the way
from the jaw to the rattle.
Nowhere to be
any better than here, when the scent
of humidity drifts on the air
and the air travels light
to the ridgeline.
Sky on the mountain’s shoulder, Turkey
vulture combing the stones
with a stare. To live with solitude
for company, the taste of venom
on the tongue and the heartbeat
of a mountain to be felt from the earth
takes patience passed through
millennia of watching, watching
for whatever might intrude
on being still. Any human
alone has to find
in each moment the ability
to coil around time. Long walks, sharp
focus on ground
to see the break in texture
of a boulder at its base where
the pattern says Mojave and the face
suddenly becomes a flash
of lightning from clear sky.
Sun Rising
Slow light on the awakening road, a thrasher
calling up the sun, the sky breathes in, breathes
out, a dream floats away
without knowing how it ends. Desert red,
a world apart. No interest rates, no headlines, just
a jackrabbit who listens
to the stones whispering. It’s too early
for suffering to begin
or souls to rise
in protest. It’s beautiful to see
the ancient sun the people here before
worshipped as it rose
and whit-whit now the mountain
holds its heart up for all the world to see.
A Trail Remembers
Javelina prints downslope
cross paths with those coyotes leave
beside the pellets coughed up
by an owl. Green
by day is mystery
at night, questions rooted
in desert: who sleeps behind the shaded
openings in arroyo
walls? who wakes up
to sip moonlight
from the sky?
who passed this way
and wanders off at daybreak
leaving no tracks of its own?
One winding trail wants always
to continue, to be entangled in the boughs
of dead mesquite,
crawl into the core
of a fallen saguaro, to spread itself
wide and to fly
with golden winged flickers. Another
is content to soak
into sand and gravel
that bear no trace of the darkness
whose way back home this is
and wears no shoes.
Acknowledgements:
Abbey: Desertology
Amethyst Review: Mysteries, Night Flight
The Blue Guitar: Radiation Dream
Cholla Needles: Springtime on the Road to Sells, Last Dream at Mesa’s Edge
Eunoia Review: An Aria for Ghost Towns, Once Upon a House
International Times: Owlcast, Migration Dream
Neologism Poetry journal: Beth
5enses: Sun Rising
The New Verse News: On the Job, Rewriting the Border
Third Wednesday: Rear View, Spiritrunner, Octavio, A Trail Remembers
Verse-Virtual: Letting Summer In, Mojave
