The blinding sun beat down on the cracked earth;
Shadows as dark as night under the blades of yucca.
Pastel red, orange, and pink ruins
Nestled into the crevasse of the desert.
Hot winds, full of the grit of Arizona.
The parched cry of a hawk,
The raspy buzz of a beetle.
Each ancient brick made by unknown hands
And fitted into the pueblo like a puzzle piece.
A lizard crawls from under a rock to bake in the sun.
The haunting moan of a kokopelli can almost be heard
Along the striped and winding canyon walls.
Under the shade of a scraggly desert pine,
A blanket of rusty needles and sappy bits of bark.
Up the lashed ladder to the narrow top,
Up the crack in the wall where only the holy could go.
A small square hole near the rim,
High enough to see the coming thunderclouds.
Subterranean, a kiva, still unacquainted
With all but the utmost reverence.
The hole in the earth from which they came.