Indian drums, pounding
heartbeats for paying tourists,
ripple the fabric of our tent.
Night falls slow, drums fade—
dreams of bears and annotated
histories of faded dangers.
In the morning, woodsmoke and coffee,
the whooshing collapse of tents,
engines mumbling readiness.
We drive the rim and hike
down to the White House Ruins,
trailing fingers along the stone.
I look through my camera,
searching for what Ansel Adams found
in those Anasazi lines.
I struggle to compose his vision
in my viewfinder while Navajo men
sell dream catchers, chuckling as they watch.
This is an older one that had been sitting around the hard drive for a while. This week has not been conducive to poetry writing. Too much hectic and not enough sit and think. There might be a few more oldies this week. Hopefully, next week (if not later this week) I’ll be able to write again. I am still doing a poem-a-day over at a gnarled oak, but I was already doing that anyway.
Thanks to the kind folks over at the NaPoWriMo site who listed Coyote Mercury as the featured site back on April 17. Just in time for me to take a few days off. Oh well, one can always keep trying.