There were canyons that pulled
themselves free
of mountains that created them,
gravel roads that storms picked up
and tossed aside, black light
at pine-oak elevation when
lightning flashed the sky down
to claim its portion of the Earth.
There were deer who stopped
to listen to the ore beneath them sing
and there was wind
calling to the miners who had returned
to their own world
to stay there. Thunder tugged at the trees
before it all went by so quickly
the sun had time to shake itself dry
before setting. It was almost music
when water was an aria flowing
over rocks and cymbals flashed
a grand finale before the misty
silence after rain, broken only
by the grosbeaks’ calls.
The Hours
Nothing much to do today, just
walk along a desert path
to where the bees have made a darkness
of themselves behind
the honeycombs they work
inside a sheltered hollow the sun can’t reach,
then wait for the golden light
to return by late
afternoon when time moves alone
on the street with a shadow for a tail
until the minutes turn to finches,
doves and quail, while seconds flash before
a watching eye as hummingbirds.
There’s a world that works
by pressing buttons. Sunlight doesn’t reach
there. You need a password
to get inside it. And there’s a world
that never asks you
for your name: no records kept, no
deadlines. It’s where
the hours go when they grow tired
of being counted
and become leaves
that shine from within themselves.
David Chorlton is a longtime resident of Phoenix, having previously lived in England and Austria. This year saw the publication of "The Long White Glove," an account of the wrongful conviction of a family member in Vienna. He still produces occasional watercolors and is attentive to the local wildlife.
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