The Transcendental Desert
Homage to Agnes Pelton
The yellow scent. Red-tailed shadow
on the trail. A drop of blue
from a lizard’s neck
shading all the way to darkness and from there
to glow the glow of mysteries
when not knowing is the greater part
of beauty. The spirits
never have an edge that would define them;
they float as dreams do
when they appear in waking life
with fragments of the night
adhering. And they are silent
as the border
that runs through desert and has no
opinion on why one country
has a history and the other
one a future. The poorest of the poor
have learned to fly. They wait
for darkness and they spread
their wings to get across. There is
no need to believe
anything about the desert.
It is a vision with shallow roots,
patience with a sting,
a memory of ocean, a jaguar’s first
last hope. He is
on the trail of years long gone, but still
treading slow ground
with the taste of a kill in his mouth.
Monsoon. Black moth. Dust winds.
Something of the spirits moves
red earth and laughs
at sudden rainfall. Lightning signs its name
and each cholla and saguaro
lights up from its core to
the tips of its thorns. The rocks howl.
Arroyos buzz. The sun
prys canyons open. A single wing
comes sailing into summer.
Another desert moment
beyond an explanation. More tracks
on the path to disappearance,
a scent the coyotes
have followed for centuries. The light
has a pulse. They may be
hallucinations that are visible and
passing shape across shape
as temperatures blossom
and the sky comes down
to strip bare
what is left on the ground.
David Chorlton has lived in Arizona long enough to see beyond the surface of the desert and to appreciate its wildlife and ability to endure the heat. He has a new book featuring watercolors of birds together with poems, The Flying Desert, from Cholla Needles Arts and Literary Library in Joshua Tree, California.
Amethyst Review 