You had said that the range
was the small of a woman’s back.
And the indians, they had said
these were the breasts of the earth.
But I chose never to see it, not that way.
Instead, transfixed on the vastness of that valley.
A paleness, something like sandstone.
Such a small thing that made us feel at home.
No matter the time of day,
there is a warmth to that light.
A light spread open and wide and welcoming.
But the dryness and the constant moan,
It threatens our existence, especially at night.
The tarps they rage and even the trees, in a slow burn, seek a moment of placidity.
Even the trees know, it won’t come.
At least not until morning, when the first light reaches the Spanish Peaks.