Bone Mask

Mask-shaped bone:

a mute mystery

we would not touch.

Bones are a prominent feature of this arid landscape. We find bones from rabbits and other small animals, as well as larger bones from elk, antelope or cattle. The dogs, of course, are much better at finding these bones than we are, especially the fresh bones left by hunters. One afternoon, as we walked along an electric fence beside the highway, our blue heeler Shelby found an extravagant display of deer bones scattered across the ground. Tissue and skin still clung to the electric fence. The deer had apparently been struck by a passing vehicle and torn to pieces by the wire.

One afternoon we found a bone shaped like a mask, with three holes positioned at the points of the eyes and mouth. It was probably a pelvis, but it was somehow eerie in its simple rendering of a human face. I picked it up briefly, then put it back on the ground. We often bring bones, rocks and dried wood back to the house with us, but we wouldn't bring the mask bone home.

Morning Smoke

One skein of smoke

rising against brown hills,

solitary fire.

I suspect that living in a remote area encourages a morbid fascination with neighbors. I'm especially fascinated with the little settlement to the South of us, a collection of hybrid dwellings that appear to be uninhabited -- most of the time. But every now and then, I spot a tantalizing scrap of evidence of life. A plume of smoke on a frosty winter morning, a battered white truck pulling up to the settlement, an outdoor fire burning on a windy January evening. We've actually seen our neighbor walking around his property, and Eric met him once at the Polish convenience store in Blanca. In the evening, when I turn the solar panels to the East to catch the next sunrise, I look to the South to see if I can spot the lights on our neighbor's house. We're never really sure if he's there or not, or how he comes and goes, or what he does. But we are certain he exists. A neighbor's existence is always reassuring.

The second photo is not our neighbor's house; it's our front yard. The wooden structure once held a cistern that collected water from our well pump. I later filled it with tumbleweeds and left it in the yard, where I've unofficially declared it "land art." In Denver, this would violate about ten different zoning regulations.

Between Mesas

Clear twilight

fills the bowl

between two mesas,

a cup of water

for the weary heart.

I love the mesas in winter; the snow highlights their hollows and planes, revealing the crevices that aren't visible in the warmer months. I spent over an hour trying to find a phrase to describe the way the sky fills the space between these ancient formations, how the parabola between them seems to offer itself like an open bowl. A woman I know once said that God is space, and having lived out here for awhile, I believe she was right.

Two Birds

A small bird's question:

three rising notes

before the gathering snow.

Desert thaw --

across snow and sand

dances the first sparrow.

Beach Combing in Winter

With snakes asleep

and prickly pear softened by snow

we wade into the winter desert.

One of my favorite activities in the world is a land-based version of "beach combing" -- wandering through the sparse ocean of sage, rabbitbrush and prickly pear to hunt for rocks, bones, sticks, colored glass and other bits and pieces. I once found some casino tokens that had been corroded to black slivers by the sun, and occasionally I'll come across someone's tidy graveyard of beer bottles and coffee cans. I feel safer beach combing in the winter, when the rattlesnakes are hibernating underground. The thorns of the cacti are either soft and mushy after a snow or brittle and frail after a few dry weeks, so they're not as hazardous to the feet.

This land looks like an ancient, dry lake bed . . . because that's what it is. That's la Culebra in the background, the mountain range named for its serpentine curves.

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.

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.