Poetry by Mary Shanley
A pack of prehistoric coyotes scamper across
the sagebrush slopes of the Sangre de Christo Mountains,
where spirits of red clay earth keep a leery eye
on urban tourists who come looking for a healing
in the hot mineral spring and maybe have their picture
taken with an authentic, Native American Indian.
Taos pueblo, ancient earth home,
now a popular postcard, like the one
Denis sent me. His message read,
“Indians didn’t have any concept of hell
until the Christians arrived.”
The distant mesas dwell in ancient silence
and the afternoon clouds hang low, as if to
eavesdrop on cinnamon toast earth.
About the Poet
Mary Shanley is a poet/storyteller living in New York City. She has had four books of poems and stories published and is a frequent contributor to on-line and print journals. Mary Shanley was a Featured Poet on WBAI Radio, NYC, and was nominatedfor a Pushcart Prize.
Vita Brevis Press. 
Love the image created with these words “afternoon clouds hang low, as if to
eavesdrop on cinnamon toast earth.”
This is a good poem. Wondering what would happen if you removed “the” from your lines. Images might pop.
Beautiful poetry. Love your imagery. 😊