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Stonework
These crows
that glide up
the canyon
on the stiff
upbreeze
have no worries.
They hold their black robed wings out
like arms outstretched
to the brethren,
tilting sightly for the best
current. They're crows,
squawking about a
favorable wind.
They rise above us,
black bauble eyes
gleaming at who is flying,
who is not. We sit
on the deck that leans out
over the canyon,
resting from our work
digging holes for moss rock
ripped from some mesa top,
transplanted to a wealthy client's
garden. We'll bury each stone
a third, some halfway,
jut overlapped edges
so they look natural.
At the top of the canyon
the crows make a wide turn and
fly down the ridge's gentler wind
then sweep back up,
again and again,
their life's work
- singing on a current of air.
Ethnic Cleansing of the Corn Beetles
I am sick (to death) of all the killing
each morning washing the blood from my hands
knowing tomorrow there will be more.
I like best the ones too stupid
or slow to run or hide
who simply crumple and fall
even better those caught coupling
sometimes three or four together.
Similar passions, killing and lust
desire's precision slackened by fatigue
joy a figment of the simple, early conquests.
We bury atrocities in myth:
dangerous, enemy, animal.
But no matter how I try it's impossible to escape
wondering how those fated to my hands
might share a preference for fresh
vegetables, certain paths through the garden
dreams of a better life.
Michele Connelly lives on the East Fork of the Gila River, a long ways from Silver City, NM
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