Tonight under a waning early-winter moon,
the smack of gunfire fresh, but distant, on the air,
I’d like to be among the stones
that line the cliffs along
the banks and tributaries
at the presa.
I’d like to stroll —
water rushing off on emergencies
great and small, etching a soundtrack —
and there among the wild grasses, run cool hands
over the faces of those ancient, stony watchers.
The heat of desert sun,
not forgotten, still rising from their skin.
Skin that was aged and pitted when
Revolutionaries rode through
with revolvers and rifles at the ready.
Skin that warms the hides
of a hundred beady lizard eyes —
witnesses to destruction
and foundation for rebirth.
Solid, warm, stones
resonant and humming with the lyrics
to thrilling songs and stories
of a lover at home
I’d like to lean back into their heat
and absorb their ability to stand
Still and silent and strong
in the face of destruction.
in their copas
to hear the squeal of sirens
stark and bright under a waning moon.
I want to touch beloved, mighty, wise stones
that they could
banish human greed and
return us, lowly wanderers,
to flesh and motion and joy.