David Chorlton

Every Day

I
Breakfast’s in the balance while the mountain glows
and hummingbirds fly out of the sun.
French Roast and a marmalade cat
stealing bread.
Low clouds read the news
to the desert beneath them
and it’s never good, but silence
is good company on an early walk
with inner thoughts on a leash.
It’s a good time
to ask the foothills what
the arroyos have planned for the day
once dishes have been washed
and dreams swept up from the carpet
where they fell in the night.

II
Yesterday’s news for a Yellow-breasted chat,
another life bird
for the yard, an instant’s clarity
against obfuscation.  Whose world is this anyway? A coyote
wanders without caring who
the new pope is
while the old gods still live in the sky. 

III
From lunch to evening shadows, watch the ridgeline
float with nothing to do but count
the minutes as they fly
and listen to daylight
telling the mountain that it owns itself.
Easy trails wind through the web of forecasts
predicting rise and fall
in temperatures and tariffs, tantrums
masquerading as government at work.

IV
Bright wind on the run, window view with time
sparkling in the trees from here to the world
the saguaro voted for.  Hawk above the back yard
pinned to the sky with light
and looking down
at a lost desert
making its way back home. The prospects
for summer rain depend
on which channel the clouds are tuned in to
and the high today is forecast
to be intolerance.

V
Now that taxes have been paid the days
are here to have and hold
waiting for darkness, no secrets in the sky, full moon,
coyote’s eye, cool air
sweeping stars aside
with summer’s blessing
for air conditioned souls

VI
A Black-headed grosbeak in the back yard
drinking while a bulletin
of news flies past the window. There’s no field guide
for deception. Best let it go
to higher ground,
settle where the trails never tell
the trees what they need to know.

VII
Nine forty-five
and a clear view in all directions for the hawks
watching everything that moves
from the bare
and twisted boughs they make
their own. And every day
is different by the measure of a wingspan, through
breakfast, lunch and laundry
with a break for imagination.
Soar briefly
at the altitude from which
mendacity is visible; running
faster than belief but soon the owl
will dip in flight,
take hold of a lie
and display it for the moon to see.

VIII
Life goes on
with cats and morning coffee, whitefish,
tuna and a spoonful of uncertainty.
And on to sleep, downslope
from the desert,
uphill from the interstate,
listening to the great-horned truth
calling up another day.

 

 

David Chorlton is a longtime resident of Phoenix, having moved there from Europe. He takes poetry lessons regularly from the desert, trying to understand its wise use of limited resources.