February 9, 2013

New Mexico

From the air
the land stretches
barren to the horizon.
Remaining here,
we will look for water
down dry washes,
hearing only silence.
Like the Zuni,
we will carve a fetish
to protect us
on the hunt for ourselves,
finding solace in the face
of time passing,
tracing lines in the sand
to show the land
from where we came.
In the famous photo
our crooked crosses
will stand nameless forever,
the full moon
gazing down upon us,
rising as the sun sets
quickly in the wind.