Richard Newman

Middle Atlas Egyptian Vultures in May

Drought, disease, roadkill—these gifts of death
bring them from their cliffs and tall pines,
their roosts of hungry young. Circling,
swooping, circling, patient as undertakers,
white-plumed, mustard-faced: Brits named them shit hawks.
On sand and rock, they stagger like drunken kings
who once worshipped them as gods, though now
they are endangered.
And when the day has cooled,
their broods fed, they take again to the skies
for joy, feathers doused in sunset.

I learned this from a purple desert flower:
The world loves us not. We must love the world.
Even the vultures scrape the last film
of daylight from our darkening heavens.

Naming Names

On the banks of the Roaring Fork,
more creek than river here in Aspen,
we play a game—are they calling
names of their children or their dogs?
Madison! Madison! a young woman calls,
and up lopes a goldendoodle.
Most dogs here are goldendoodles.
Shep! a middle aged man shouts out,
ignored by a shoulder-length,
golden-locked boy with vacant eyes.
King James! Come, sweetie! a woman
coos to a toddler who obeys
but would rather keep playing cars
in the calf-high water with our son.
Bishop! the same man reprimands
the younger brother of Shep.
Luna is both a white bearded collie
and a small girl in a mermaid dress,
while Anthony is a chocolate labradoodle.

Our son Genji was named
after my favorite cookie, which
was named after the lovelorn prince
in The Tale of Genji, perhaps
the world’s first novel, written
by a Japanese noblewoman
and published around 1021.
Genji! we call over and over.
It’s time for lunch! we plead.
He looks up and smiles
but sits defiantly in the icy river
tugging his legs and bloated diaper
and says simply: no.