Written at Chaco Canyon where ancestors still speak.
the aged mother creaks
her skin and pops her stoney joints.
The knife of summer has cut deep
and severed springs drop below whisper.
by day the seers track the sun
by night the twelve are chosen.
All is as it was, cloudless, windless
until, finally, the rain.
Fourscore since the last turgid night
of rain driving up the worm; now
down descends bird and beak
well whetted and orbs gather darkening light.
Cornucopia is come!
This is the promised day of plenty
when all life breaks loose in frenzied death.