It matters not what others see. I love the looks of me. Moo, moo, me, me.  male’s loud bob-o-link a harsh guttural chuck three-syllable song, coo-coo-cup a faint and thin bee-yup or yep a single, loud klee-yer a short, creaky koguba-leek a loud and high repeated seep low grunts a series of clear, thin whistles and trills occasionally a nasal grating sound a weak twittering delivered from the ground a whining mag or a mellow wurp a rapid tremulous trill three to eight loud and deep hoots a plaintive, whistled pee-ee a loud quavering, descending whistle cheerily, cheer-up, cheerio a high, duck-like squak gobble, gobble *In Attendance: Bobolink; Bronzed Cowbird, Euyrasian Collared-Dove; Golden Eagle; Northern Flicker; Common Grackle; Blue-throated Hummingbird; Glossy Ibis; Yellow-eyed Junco; Snail Kite; Horned Lark; Black-billed Magpie; Lesser Nighthawk; Great Horned Owl; Say’s Phoebe; Montezuma Quail; American Robin; Pin-tailed Snipe; Wild Turkey Found poem National Geographic Field Guide to the Birds of North America Independence ValleyWatch the restless swallows come and go on the power line to Tuscarora. Some avian law explains the way birds leave space between one another. Instinct decrees distance between hawks hunched on poles beside the Midas Road and tells peregrine falcons to nest at least two miles from other raptors. What of the ranchers who inhabit the range below? From an eagle’s view above the plain, distance makes sense: what the high desert land can sustain. A question remains. Does distance breed those disinclined to be near their kind? The trails of truck dust on country roads show the miles folks go to help each other. Not everyone is meant for this place. Generations who stay find solace in silence, comfort in kindred souls, God in the sunsets and the space.  Something awful may
happen tomorrow. Some terrible thing may be waiting for mourning. Think on this: The car you leave in never arrives. The voices you hear are whispering lies. The hankie you touch to your lips fills with blood. Think of the skull on the mantle. Ponder Boethius et al. Turn Terror away. Make today quiet, humorous and good. Today I rearranged the fake flowers. I placed the fake grape hyacinths on the fireplace mantel, put the fake spring bouquet on a table by the couch, the fake succulents on a shelf just above the kitchen sink. The real daffodils in the front yard were bent low last evening by more than six inches of spring snow. I doubt the tulips along the driveway will survive the vagrant deer that come down from the mountain this time of year. Did you see that satellite photo of the spring equinox? Here in the western hemisphere we’re tilted toward the sun, not shaded by darkness, even though it feels like it.   Remember that the automatic door
to the department store opens before you, polite as a doorman at the Ritz. Remember, when you descend the escalator at the airport, to stand up straight for god’s sake! Don’t you dare think you’re so small you might slide through the slit between the stair and the floor. By the way, those pockets stuffed with grievances weigh you down. So does your shortsighted frown. Listen to me. Laughter sets you free.  The Great Chain of Being
starts with God, ends with dirt. Beetles rank below the pretty insects, the ladybugs and the dragonflies, and beetles rank behind the useful insects, the spiders and the honeybees. The lowly dermestid beetle occupies the unpleasant insect category, which puzzles me. If cleanliness is next to godliness, this beetle clean-up crew should get its due. I, for one, salute these truth tellers, who scavange the sins of the flesh, eating all that decay. Getting down to the beauty of bare bones, you might say.  Driving to Elko on a winter day storm clouds stacked from Lone Mountain to the Rubies. Jesus rays in all directions. Even the lonely house on Adobe Summit softened by snow and light. For a moment, looking down, you would think the whole damned town rests upon hallowed ground. For all I know, and this is true, a light shines right now on me and on you. A Christmas Memory and Joy to Our Imperfect World--Bernalillio County Medical Center, 197312/8/2019  Over the loudspeaker, “Christmas party radiology conference room at noon.”
We chipped in for cold cuts, brought goodies-- cheese and crackers, jello salad, Mexican wedding cookies. Mary Dullea brought posole to eat in paper cups. Spiked punch lasts fifteen minutes. Mrs. Petty whispers, “We shoulda made chicken soup for Dr. Kopperman.” Sandra brought bunuelos, made them in her Mexican cooking class. Consuela spits hers into the wastebasket, hisses to Teresa, “I’ve never tasted anything like that.” Sandra gets huffy, “They’re Mexico City style. Not New Mexico.” Kyle, the security guard, plays Santa. Evie gives me three pair of bikini panties, each with a drink recipe. Mary Dullea whispers she’s selling hot Navajo jewelry for her brother-in-law in Window Rock. The custodians have their party upstairs. Lucille comes down to ours and complains, “They’re playing Spanish music. I can’t understand a word of it.” She writes her recipe for sweet potato pie on a “While You Were Out” pad. It’s her new husband’s favorite. He’s from the Bahamas, hates Albuquerque. Mrs. Petty passes around a Christmas card to slip into Poopsie’s in-box. Poopsie is secretary to Dr. B, the chief of radiology. The card is a photo of a penis with glasses and a little Santa hat. Underneath it says, “Season's Greetings. Guess Who?’ Poopsie won’t come to our party. The way she refers to herself as “eg-ZEC-ative secretary,” I know she won’t show. Evie thinks Poopsie is having a mad affair with Dr. B. That may be true, but I think Poopsie hates all of us, especially this time of year. Evie is thrilled to be pregnant. We laugh when she pops a button because her boobs are getting big. The conference room is near the nursery and the maternity ward. When someone opens the door, you hear an infant cry. Mrs. Petty whispers, “Baby Hay-Soos,” every time.  You open the bedroom curtain
and it’s hallelujah outside. The ordinary patio gold-leaved, the cottonwood trees lit from within. For a moment you can withstand the splendor, accept the hallowed ground, believe in the glory of endings. |
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AuthorNancy Harris McLelland taught creative writing, composition, and literature for over twenty years and Conducted writing workshops for the Western Folklife Center, Great Basin College , and the Great Basin Writing Project . An Elko County native with a background in ranching. McLelland has presented her "Poems from Tuscarora" Both at daytime and evening events at the Cowboy Poetry Gathering in Elko. Her essay, "Border Lands: Cowboy Poetry and the Literary Canon" is in the anthology Cowboy Poetry Matters . Categories |
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