El Alma del Oeste
In recent weeks on shifting cliffs
at Canyonlands, or Rabbit Hill,
at Window Rock, or Wrinkled Sands,
or mesas where, this time of year,
slowly spill the waters,
we have sighted the claw of the infant spring,
and heard the bighorn's hoof ring.
Like children we have peered into
the crib of the west, the canyon's rib,
and the empty nest. Like children we
have wondered who induced all this,
and what comes next.
And here we are, the two of us.
The lynx's prints at Corral Fork
have brought us to a clutch of quail.
We build a cairn and turn back to the trail.
A breeze can trade a mother's fear
of letting go. So shall ye sow.
We speak in English, wind, and espanol.