ORION'S BELT

The wet stream bed, red 
in the setting sun, now shimmers 
silver in the half-moon light.
A jet pierces Orion below 
the belt. Even here it seems 
there's no such thing as a fair fight.

This canyon will cut through the Caprock 
caliche, devour the Triassic 
bones and ravish the red beds 
of Permian seas, until the Earth 
sickens and heaves up 
the poisons of the human disease.

The Hunter and his Dog will be here 
long after the jet is gone,
long after the new road scar 
on Red Mesa either festers or heals, 
long after my bones wash 
into the meat-colored mud 
of Red Canyon, mingle with deer skulls 
and the crescent moon curves of audad 
horns, and our teeth sing 
with the jawbones of coyotes and the femur 
flutes of fox and feral pigs.

Orion stalks the Bear
that wheels around my center.
Canus barks to Coyote
leaving purple prickly pear scat
in Mahogany Canyon. I loosen 
my belt, turn and lay down
in soft grass with my dog 
and with the contrail dissolve into 
the swirling milk of stars.


© 2002 by Richard W. Todd

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