I sit in the cave kiva,
high in the pumice wall
of Frijoles canyon.
full of fractured energy
I am a resting cat.
A peaceful wind
Slides through the piñons.
Jemez Pueblo during the faced paced
buffalo dance. C. worries that we
anglos are too conspicuous. I am
captivated with eagles, deer men
with sticks for legs, horned heads,
drums, the fast beat of thongs.
I laugh with the pueblo man
who asks me to dance. I am not
a dancing man in this place
The haunting, high light of dusk
& the red mountains of
I stand differently on
I sink my toes like roots,
the last piece of the sun
sink below the sky.
Climbing the boulders up the steep
sliding through sharp needles of
prickly pear, Spanish bayonet,
I see Ladron Peak, Mount Taylor,
the Magdelena Mountains,
the round butte of Cabezon,
miles of space between.
There is a joy that
I am not here by trade or tradition.
Red-- ruddy faced from sun and wind,
I do need a mountain in my yard,
a tree in my head. I love
the flame that licks my foot.
I am a dancing man in this place.
*2009 WOOD COIN: Religion, Spirit, Prophecy/ Issue: Ginsburg, “Rooted Places”