Season of Wind

The night wind

sighed without stopping;

in my dream

all was erased

but sand and stone.

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.

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.

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.

Firewood

Under morning frost

a fragrant massif of pine --

winter's last firewood.

Widows

I know the wooden widows.

With their silvered backs to the mountain

they wait.

These posts mark the site of a ranch that has vanished. The stones that lined the foundation of the house still exist, but the walls have fallen away, and the barbed wire of the corrals is warped and rusted. These posts line the road that leads to the highway. On my early morning drive to work, I used to silently greet the posts, especially the one above, which I called "the Widow." I envied her unmoving solitude, her stoic stance against the hard Northern wind.

When I worked at a nursing home about 30 miles from here, one of the elderly residents told me that a rancher had hired him years ago to graze cattle out in Blanca Flats, but there wasn't enough vegetation for the livestock to eat. Ironically, the disappearance of edible vegetation and the thinness of the soil may be caused partly by the lack of grazing -- the symbiosis between livestock and the land has been broken. The land grows increasingly dry, the brush more sparse. The old irrigation ditches are parched seams, and the sheep trails have faded to gray threads. Space and silence are our bumper crops now.

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.