Stones Speak

lava speaks of the rage

of the mountain’s birth

while the seamed granite

speaks of the silence

that followed

I love the Native American idea that stones speak, that they instruct us through their ancient intimacy with the earth. I spend a lot of time hunting for rocks, studying them, trying to listen to them. Rocks are great conversationalists. They're imposing without being condescending, informative without being overbearing, quietly witty without trying to force their charm on the listener.

They bear the marks of unimaginable heat and aeons of wind. Here in the San Luis Valley, which once held a large lake, many rocks also show the softly persistent wear of water. The stones speak of silence, patience and immutable resistance to the elements. Their seams and fissures are like mute mouths; their pock marks are like the scars on a well worn face.

Granite Man

Granite man

lost the urge to be herded

takes shelter in a tin trailer

buries his bottles

sleeps with a gun.

No one has lived in this trailer for years, but I'm fascinated by its nonexistent inhabitant, whom I picture as a grizzled misanthrope. The dogs love to wander around on this property, which was once someone's unauthorized junkyard. There's still a corral and some old sheep sheds to the west of the trailer. Blanca towers over the abandoned trailer, turning this tiny shelter into a thimble.

The Invisible Life of Mountains

Gems from the Road

I once dyed my hair

the rich red of a bloodstone

now the roots are gray

and I dig gems from the road --

quartz, obsidian and granite.

Captivity

snow rims the fence

coffee in a chipped white cup

coyote underground

Frost covers the fence this morning in long, furry crystals, creating a delicate barrier across the wire. Fence upon fence, we create our own captivity.

Blood Sky

Along the dark cloud path

a lifetime sentence begins

as a dead man's blood

rises to the horizon

to paint the sinking sky

Today is the anniversary of a murder that I can't seem to forget. I didn't know anyone involved in the crime, but the circumstances haunt me. Memories of my own mistakes, the rancid emotions and overblown fears. After the murderer was sentenced a couple of months ago, we had a series of flawless sunsets in the Valley, absolutely cloudless, with yellow gradients giving way to blue, and I felt that in some way, these skies held a gift of serenity for the man who died so violently.

La Culebra

winter sun

warms the stone snake

La Culebra despierta

This mountain range is known as la Culebra. In this pale dawn light, on an icy December morning, it really does look like a snake warming itself in the sun. As the sun rises, its light seems to illuminate the mountains from within. Today will be a good sun day; we'll have plenty of heat and power.

La Veta Pass

smoke on the summit

chalk dust on the mountain's cheek

your cool white fingers

Driving over La Veta Pass into the valley near sunset, I tried to capture the faintly rosy cast of light on this mountain. I'm always frustrated by the fact that I can't photograph the scope, color and substance of what I see. If I lost my sight, I'd have to rely on these remembered images, and I'm not sure if my memory would be vivid enough to recreate this beauty. Maybe the mountains have an additional dimension of beauty that can't be captured by any eye.

Memory of Stones

Slow as a fault line

grows the memory of stones;

they recall the shift

of the rumbling mountain

and the sleep of the lost sea.

The growth of the mountain seems infinitesimally slow; the orogeny takes place one millimeter at a time. Then the sudden seizure of activity -- an earthquake, a volcanic eruption, a shift in the tectonic plates. There are fault lines at the foot of Blanca, waiting to open. The plates may not shift until long after I'm gone.

I think about everything the stones have seen, how long they've waited to take the form they have, how they're continually being shaped by the wind, and I don't feel so dissatisfied with my own slow progress.

December Wind

Each wind has a voice --

the groan of an empty sea,

the high, panicked breath

of a fleeing jackrabbit,

or a bull snake's dry whisper.

Last week there were several days of brutal winds across the West. Here it was a strafing, relentless wind that slammed the house like the winds on the high seas. Early in the morning, you could see a brown scrim of dust rising around the foot of Blanca. By afternoon, the mountain was completely veiled.

Although we refer to the wind in the singular, as if there were only one, in reality there are many winds, and each has its own character.

Rabbitbrush

Like a woman's hair

rabbitbrush displays a life,

from its gray, wind-matted roots

to its maidenly green straws

still tufted with yellow stars.

Rabbitbrush, or Chrysothamnus viscidiflorus, is one of the few plants that grow abundantly in our little microclimate, which is low on precipitation and high in altitude. The prairie winds expose the roots of these perennial shrubs, flattening them into shredded whorls on the ground. During rain or snow, the straw-like stems turn plump and green. When the water disappears, their skeletal remains cling to the dust, withstanding the harsh winds until water coaxes them to life again. These shrubs are amazingly hardy, flourishing in this cold, dry, thin air where little else survives in the way of flora.

Morning Snow

Coyote pups call out

in the snowlight, cries ringing

flat against the walls

of a milky winter fog,

questions fading in the brush.

No visibility in this dense white fog; the mountains are hidden. We're getting a little power from a white thumbprint of a sun. The cries of the coyotes on a winter morning are haunting.

Illusions of Distance

Distance is a dream

brought on by shadowed mesas

etched with early snow --

in truth, the bluffs are as close

as the rims of my eyelids.

These layered mesas lie to the South of us. Light creates illusions of distance on the Flats; some features of the landscape stand out with crystalline clarity on certain days, while others are nearly invisible until a specific cast of light brings them out of hiding. I feel that all of these features are much closer than they appear.