The Vermilion Cliffs

by David Chorlton

Through the residue the wind
left behind after carving
light into shapes that endure,

the double yellow line that leads
to the edge of the world
runs to the point where the sky
opens for it to pass

and continues toward the stars,
leaving in its wake
rock stretched thin

in layers recording time
back to when a sea was here,

feeling for a shore.

To Ajo and Back

by David Chorlton

I   Highway 85

A migratory flock in V formation flies
across the Gila River, where
the trees along its banks
are pastel smoke in March

when lupines, broom and mallow
line the road all the way
past yet another desert lonely prison
where the only movement visible

is that of swallows looping
high above the sparkling razor wire.

II   The Depot at Ajo

When wind combs back
the grasses sprouting
from the platform's cracks
it's telling how the mine closed
and left a wall of tailings
along the edge of town

but the Cactus wrens stayed on
to call from palo verdes
rooted in between the tracks.

III   Desert Arch

The ocotillo fan their many arms
to receive the wind
that blows volcanic shadows
over rocks dripping from the light
in rhyolite layers moulded
to the shape of the Earth

and high above them
an arch has formed
through which the stars
flow when they follow
bats into the night.

IV   Folklorico Dance on the Plaza

In stately descent
from a clear sky
the turkey vultures glide
over the open pit mine,
down close to the old school
and the white cupola
on the  Catholic church,
eighty wings wide above the plaza
as festivities begin

and they are silence over music
when they reach the eucalyptus
growing next to the mortuary
they have chosen for a roost.

V   Border Patrol on the Reservation

Into grass at the asphalt’s edge
a roadrunner darts for cover,
neck stretched forward and back
as straight as the road from Why
to Quitohoa. He’s gone
so fast not even the agent can see

from the truck parked behind
the old billboard whose lettering
has flaked beyond explanation
of why it is there.

VI   Reservation Spring

In a land whose rivers are dry
wildflowers flow
from shrine to shrine
and spring to spring;
from needles filled with light
on the cholla to a mine
cut from a mountainside.

Bat Box

by David Chorlton

There’s a rustle at dusk in the box
held high on a pole in the yard
with a backdrop of oak, rock
and sycamore, where the resident bats
prepare for the dark
with its fur textured touch and the wool
lining the voice of an owl.
The first one comes out

as a tremble
that takes form and flies; the second
resembles applause
with two hands set free of their sleeves;
the third and fourth take opposite
directions, and ten minutes pass
between the fifth and the last,
by which time the fox

is alert in the grass, while the trees
in the forest step back
for the bear who means no harm
to pass through.

Always Leaving

by David Chorlton

The fields are stretched
bright and wide
around workers paid in cash
from the back of a truck
by someone who needs
anonymity as much
as they do;
                they
whose hands pick onions,
flowers and celery,
pack strawberries
into little baskets
and little baskets into
a box to ship
to markets far away,
and who fold
the banknotes they are given
tight,
         using the hands
that hold the soap
that washes off pesticides
when the work day
ends, and which pack
up belongings
when the time comes
to move,
            and everything fits
in a suitcase
that closes and locks
with a click for each crop
as it ripens.

Chiricahua December

by David Chorlton

Sparrows flash
between the junipers
while towhees rummage
in grass turned dry
and pale through which
a trail leads
up the slope. Snow
clings to the crevices
on canyon walls
above the jays
and sapsuckers busy
tapping and calling,
oak into oak; red cap;
blue wing; low sun
shining cool
through the evergreens.

*

A chill stands up
straight and runs
from an agave's root
through the stalk
to the gray light
carried on the morning
wind across level
ground that flows
into the foothills
to where a shrike
looks out from
a shiver
at the tip of a mesquite.

*

Winter's crooked bones
rise from the creek banks,
white against the oaks
and junipers filling
slowly with night. It begins
with the stream turning
water to sound
and moves up the mountain
until the peak fades,
the juncos have gone
from the leaves in the yard,
and the forest closes around
the white patch
on a flicker's back.

*

A woodpecker's tap
carries between the trees
with their arms full
of overnight snow
while conversation soaks
into the clouds
pressing low and cold
onto the road
and the ice
lining each stalk of grass.

Man with a Broom

by David Chorlton

If anyone could sweep the sky clean
it would be the man who spends his days
between Third Avenue and Fifth
never far from Thomas Road,
but he can only reach the numbers
on the speed limit signs
which he dusts, day after day,

and swishes clean the sidewalk
with short and nervous movements,
left right, left right, rest
a minute and continue, square
by concrete square. He leans his bicycle
against a wall, takes down the bucket
hanging from the handlebars

and arranges what pass
for possessions on the ground
before starting. His face bears the same
expression on Monday
as on Friday, and for him there are
no weekends. Dirt settles
each Saturday, Sunday, on all
the areas for which
he takes responsibility. Back and forth,

he rides week-long, filling all his hours
while traffic passes; the pizza business opens
and closes; streetlamps
light up and go off; while the heat
reaches a hundred-and-ten; while it falls
to thirty at night in December; through
sudden rain and lightning flash;
while the ambulance rushes to save
someone’s life when it’s late; while

the mockingbird above him
perching on the power pole
sings from its little grey heart
for anyone who’ll place business on hold
and listen to the silver coated notes.

Winter Tourist

by David Chorlton

The bars are open and every sand grain
on the beach is sparkling
in January light. Across the hotel courtyard
are yellow sunshades placed
beside the tables, blue towels on
the plastic chairs around the pool
and from the room a view of the Atlantic
at sunset, just before the evening buffet.
It is not enough. Even with an olive
in the cocktail and an avenue
lined with palm trees, it is too little
for someone who has spent a lifetime
preparing for this. Beneath all skies
he imagined the one now above him.
In every job he worked he promised
he’d make up for being used. He’d escape
the cities too, in which he lived, escape
and leave them far behind
without packing a coat in his suitcase.
When he arrived, nobody
was waiting to meet him. It is
an industry here to cater
to his every wish, but he is lost
with nothing to resist
as he walks to the shore in the winter
he carried with him always,
his hands in his pockets, his pockets
lined with ice.

Prophecy

by David Chorlton

Foretelling the future is a madman’s work.
When wild-haired wanderers
drifted in from the desert
with sand in their eyes and fire in every word
they’d at least attract a crowd
before everyone went on with whatever they’d been doing.

Harbingers of doom were ten a penny.
Only the most emaciated
attracted attention, and drew a little pity
while they brought down the heavens,
burned crops, and opened the floodgates
to a cataclysm so severe
even the locusts went hungry.
It’s a hard profession

to keep up now so many amateurs
are clouding the waters with doubt
and denial. The romance of attributing
disasters to the gods
is long gone, and it’s hard to spend all day
in the marketplace

laying blame and pointing fingers
and telling everyone to mend their reckless ways;
oh it just becomes
a kind of punishment to tell the truth,
it’s like having bad breath, it’s
a curse, it’s no way
to get elected, it’s spoiling the party, it’s
everyone’s last chance.

Stony Trail

by David Chorlton

As far as the eye can climb it
the trail cleaves to the light

falling between creosote and cholla
onto the random shapes

stones are, lying broken
or embedded in the ground

beneath the steps of all who pass
along each tilt and turn

at human speed
through coyote space.