A full moon burned through the clouds
and the weight of history fell to Earth between them
as first light crackled
along the mountain ridge. The big words:
genocide, deforestation, slavery,
lie in plain sight, and the hawk
comes down to pick
whatever he can carry
back to line his nest in the eucalyptus tree.
Hard work
never ends. As soon
as one injustice has been taken, another
one appears. Then there is the Constitution
to interpret, and truth to define
while grackles hop onto the texts and snatch
punctuation marks away. It’s a grey
and quiet day: forty per cent
chance of rain, and close
to certain the police will shoot someone
by supper time
when the birds have gone to roost
and nobody is left to sweep away
unarmed, threatening, accidental . . .

David Chorlton looks forward to getting back into the nearby desert park as springtime progresses. That park proved interesting enough to him to base a short book of poems and paintings last year, The Inner Mountain (published by Cholla Needles in Joshua Tree, CA). The coyotes come down to the streets in his neighborhood and move with style! Read other articles by David.