Adrift in the flow of it all, I barely know
when night turns her face to the sun
these days, so many springtime pursuits,
and there are streams that beckon, flowing
wildly as long as snowmelt from higher
altitudes drives water down the Borracha
Canyon into the settlement of Vallecitos
and beyond, gushing through pine forests
into rocky beds, nourishing the sandy soil
of this region, cascading over boulders,
turning corners along courses it has carved
over centuries and finally seeking greater
rivers, feeding into the Rio Grande,
wanting nothing so much as the sea;
How have people existed in arid regions,
remote as the end of this twisted mountain
road, high altitude limiting means
of sustenance, lumbermill shuttered,
cattle replacing sheep nearly a century ago
as predators continue scanning fields
for the young and weak; still, as in Hawai’i,
cows enjoy the most stunning outlooks, relaxing
in jaw-dropping scenery, at one with the ground
of the earth in a way humans might emulate,
resting when needed, wandering when prompted,
feeding as sacrament under the brilliance
of wide-open azure skies struck through
with migrating waterfowl, geese and egrets
and the occasional perennial triplet
of red-tailed hawks, ever circling,
thick wings outstretched as they soar
freely on thermals, variegated backs warmed
in the brilliance of our blessed star
the sun, savoring each moment until,
in a splash of fruit salad colors, his
flaring bald head flattens out before ducking
into the curve of purple hills while less
obvious luminaries, which have never gone
anywhere, take center stage in a backdrop
of endless black velvet as our portion
of the planet closes now into the chill
and perpetual revolution of the night.

Forest stream, Vallecitos, NM ~ bj 2023