Season of Wind

The night wind

sighed without stopping;

in my dream

all was erased

but sand and stone.

Sand Dunes

On winter dunes

the wind breathes a spine and ribs

into cold sand.

We went for a hike at Sand Dunes National Park a couple of weeks ago. It was a Monday morning, and the admissions booth was deserted. A note taped to the window said that admission was free that day.

On the Sand Dunes, the sky is an inversion of the ocean. We climbed to the crest of a dune and looked out into a bowl of blue space.

I lay in the sand and made a sand angel. If you look closely, you can make out her wings and the skirt of her robe. I accidentally stepped on her abdomen when I got up.

I was very happy that day; I felt free. As I lay on my back, swimming in the sand and watching the sky, I thought:

I was here.

I saw the moon.

Lunar Maria

A rising moon

meets the basalt hill

at the slope of earth's memory.

The inception of the Rio Grande Rift in northern New Mexico and southern Colorado was accompanied by voluminous mafic volcanism preserved in part as erosional remnants on an intrarift horst within the current axial rift graben of the San Luis Valley.

Journal of Geophysical Research, vol. 96, no. B8: "Oligocene Basaltic Volcanism of the Northern Rio Grande Rift: San Luis Hills Colorado"; R.A. Thompson, C.M. Johnson and H.H. Mehnert; 1991.

* * * *

The basalt hills behind our house are ancient shapes, the soft aftermath of ancient volcanic activity. In the evening the hills seem to embody the earth's memory, gently sloping into darkness.

Basalt is an igneous rock, porous yet dense, the color of charcoal. The lunar maria are the basalt plains of the moon. Once believed to be seas, the mare basalts are actually vast, dark plains created by volcanic explosions.

Old House

House of the absent heart:

your cracked eye

holds a memory of fire.

The Visitors

After summer winds,

their scattered belongings

transformed by winter sky

This land appeared to be uninhabited until the owners temporarily took over in the summer. Like everyone who visits the Valley for the first time, or who innocently attempts to set up house here, they weren't ready for the wind. They set up a tent for their fishing gear and cooking equipment -- the wind blew it down. They installed a plastic shed to store their things -- the wind ripped it apart. So now our visitors have given up, it seems, and have left their belongings to the vagaries of the wind.

Ever since they surrendered to the forces of nature, their stuff hasn't gone anywhere.

Sage

brittle blossoms

cling to the sage brush --

winter's pungent ghosts

Three Sisters

Three wooden sisters

recall the homebound cattle

at the death of day.

I call these wooden corral posts "the three sisters." The old posts and ruined fences out here seem to take on their own identity. Weathered by wind, silvered by sun, they have faces, knots and shoulders. At one time, cattle and sheep grazed here; before that, there were buffalo. Now there are just a lot of tumbleweeds, prickly pear, rocks and a handful of human loners who are looking after the space.

After an East Wind

patch of snow --

dropped by the East wind

her abandoned dress

When I'm out walking in the winter, I come across these little heaps of snow here and there. The snow here is usually very dry, like tiny flecks of sand. Sometimes, for no reason I can identify, a patch won't melt along with the rest of the snow cover. Spotting these patches in the distance, I've mistaken them for discarded paper, old bandages, toilet tissue and abandoned clothing. This terrain plays tricks on the mind, creating tiny mirages of civilization in an area that's all but uninhabited by humans. On the other hand, it's very common for bits of human refuse to travel for miles in a strong wind, and we'll find scraps of other lives scattered near our house.

Disappearing Roads

overgrown road

the brush has blurred you

the horizon has retaken you

now you're ready for the traveler

without a map

Our two plots of land are part of an entity known as the San Luis Valley Ranches. About 40 years ago, a real estate developer had the idea of turning this area into a subdivision. There's actually an SLV Ranches covenant, dating back to the late 1960's, that imposes various restrictions on the subdivision's homeowners. We're not allowed to live in a tipi, raise swine or start a commune out here. Although I've occasionally been intrigued by the idea of living in a tipi, I can't say I'm very interested in swine-herding or communal living.

Oh, and no houses with gray stucco. Obviously a gray stucco dwelling would clash with the aluminum or vinyl siding on the rare mobile home or RV that dots the landscape.

In fact, there are few residential structures on the Flats. The developer's dream was never realized. Apparently some of these plots have been purchased, but few people actually settled here. The winds are too fierce, the winters too cold. There's no electricity, no natural gas, and the geographical barriers imposed by the mountains tend to separate the Valley's residents from the rest of the world. As a result, the Flats are crisscrossed by dozens of roads, which are marked by hand-painted street signs. Road graders pass through the area every few weeks, but they only grade the roads that are commonly used. The roads that have no inhabitants and no steady traffic are left to grow over, returned to the rabbitbrush, prickly pear and sage.

Winter Seeds

white bursts of silk

on a hardened winter prairie

seeds for a second lifetime

I found these white tufts of silky, cotton-puff seed on a shrub the other morning. I assume this is a rabbitbrush, although it's hard to recognize it without the distinctive bracts or yellow blossoms. August through October is the flowering season for rabbitbrush. Their seeds mature in August through September.

The Flats are as dry as an empty ocean bed; the gray grasses remain fixed in their usual dormant state, wind whistling through their iron-hard blades. In some ways, this looks like a merciless terrain, but this land has given me the chance to start a new life.

Happy New Year

dawn leafs the mountains

as if the stone were paper

as I watch the sun

candle the ancient granite

the luminous pages close

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.

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.

Early Sunset

Mars is a lone note of light

in a sky playing out its spectrum.

As yellow gives way to a soft verdict of blue,

I thank the crime that sentenced me

to live through this.

Stop