Winter 1962 • Vol. XXIV No. 1 PoetryJanuary 1, 1962 |

Black Vultures over Guaymas

HARBOR: TOWN: CEMETERY: DESERT: GARDEN: The hissing whistle of their wings dividing the light Above the red islands often lifted my head; And the sky, filled with the purpose of a hundred hurrying vultures, Interpreted the sea, rustling its different sibilants. I felt a spell of blue sharpen the thorns of the earth; I heard the active town coursing its labyrinth Of bisque about the harbor and backward amid the hills Lie still, a mast of shell abandoned to the sun. And, past the last sharp shack and barefoot paths, I saw Walled-in dead monuments bedizened with awful love, Paper blossoms of fear and trivia of doubt. Then in my empty hand I read the palm of dust. Over all frozen eyes, the black doves of that waste Passed to its ashen edge where their consuming peace Became those distances, westward the ocean plain, Landward a sea of light, the opal stare of haze— Calcine of rose, old ash, quick with Arabian flame: A line of egrets wavering eastward o

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Caracara

By Brewster Ghiselin

HARBOR: TOWN: CEMETERY: DESERT: GARDEN: The hissing whistle of their wings dividing the light Above the red islands often lifted my head; And the sky, filled with the purpose of […]

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