Autumn At Taos

Over the rounded sides of the Rockies, the aspens of autumn, The aspens of autumn, Like yellow hair of a tigress brindled with pins.

Down on my hearth-rug of desert, sage of the mesa, An ash-grey pelt Of wolf all hairy and level, a wolf’s wild pelt.

Trot-trot to the mottled foot-hills, cedar-mottled and piñon; Did you ever see an otter? Silvery-sided, fish-fanged, fierce-faced whiskered, mottled.

When I trot my little pony through the aspen-trees of the canyon, Behold me trotting at ease betwixt the slopes of the golden Great and glistening-feathered legs of the hawk of Horus; The golden hawk of Horus Astride above me.

But under the pines I go slowly As under the hairy belly of a great black bear.

Glad to emerge and look back On the yellow, pointed aspen-trees laid one on another like feathers, Feather over feather on the breast of the great and golden Hawk as I say of Horus.

Pleased to be out in the sage and the pine fish-dotted foothills, Past the otter’s whiskers, On to the fur of the wolf-pelt that strews the plain.

And then to look back to the rounded sides of the squatting Rockies, Tigress brindled with aspen Jaguar-splashed, puma-yellow, leopard-livid slopes of America.

Make big eyes, little pony At all these skins of wild beasts; They won’t hurt you.

Fangs and claws and talons and beaks and hawk-eyes Are nerveless just now. So be easy. Taos.