Born again in Arizona
If I were to be born
again in Arizona
perhaps I'd come as a hawk
red tailed, pale breasted, sharp eyed
high over flat mesas and Hopi
sacred dancing Kachinas -
snow on peaks guarding distance.
Or as a horned toad, four legged,
her spikes hardly showing
against dry fallen needles
in evergreen pine forest
high on the Mingus Mountain.
Or maybe as hummingbird
darting in four directions
deep in the canyons by Tucson
his feathers flashing brightly,
her tiny eggs safely hatching.
A rattlesnake perhaps
among shafts of old goldmines
far into Superstitions
where trails carry no hikers
and no beer bottles shine broken
None of them has to dodge
snowbirds from Minnesota
transplants from California
crowding all streets and highways
in their vans and their Lincolns
They do not weep each morning
over mountains, hills, deserts
covered with creeping cancer
of big development houses:
more new pavement, more sewers.
They do not swing their car keys
on a chain as a weapon
crossing a dark street swiftly
listening for the footsteps
of a mugger or rapist.
And they don't miss their exits
scared to change lanes too quickly:
driver of the red Bronco
may get very offended
and shoot up small white Sentra.
Maybe I better never
get born again in Arizona.
Izabel Sonia Ganz
December 1997
A Letter to Hawk
The Crone's Poetry Pages