(at Walnut Canyon, Arizona)
In a time designated September,
among short pine trees, and feelingthe high mountain heat, I look
across a deeply gashed canyon
and a thousand years--not time at all!--
to small homes people made
in gaps of limestone,
with sandstone rocks for
outer walls. Overhead,
crows, ravens, and hawks
whirl, riding the updrafts
of hot air. How quiet the Sanagua
generations must of have been.
I imagine murmurs and giggling,
sometimes overlain with shrieks
of illness or birthing cries. Little
traceries of smoke rising from
cook fires. People working to live.
I turn away from all the history
hiding in those crafted caves,
look down at a lichen-etched rock,
walk to the paved parking lot
to drive--in no time at all!--the roaring
machine back to Flagstaff and
its massive crops of housing.
hans ostrom 2024
