Friends tell me: You should Blog! But I would rather randomly post poetry. And since All Hallow's Eve is upon us, I'll begin by remembering the dead.
Dead Horse Point
Last night I dreamt
of mountain lions running.
Their steamy breath
trailed me with the scent of survival.
Was it the moon that brought them?
Or the rain?
Alone on the rim
the hooves of phantom horses
strike the slickrock behind me.
There are others on the Kayenta:
the murdered girl,
her body never found;
the boys struck by lightning,
and the suicide,
alone on a cliff
watching the sun set
one last time.
The wind stirs them up.
Their stories hang in the darkness
suspended on boughs of pinyon.
They brush against me in sudden breezes
and I turn, startled.
I can’t pass that cliffrose
near the Mormon tea and Bigelow’s sage
His face appears: eyes closed,
fingertips motionless, body rigid.
The man with the blue face is dying.
He lays there still,
another ghost to haunt the cliffs.
breath stopped short.
Or was it the singing of coyotes?
I crawled from sleep
to the door
and stepped into silver shadows.
Etched in red mud,
the muffled breathing
First published by WILDERNESS WATCHER, 7/2004, Volume 15