【by Grace Fangmann】

The sun beats down on this
Midwestern female transplant of tall
Whispering grass in the Santa Fe sand
Of chips of jade and aqua in her belt
Buckle, Bible-thumping kind of crazy,
The spirit that breathes in that same
Kind of whisper that the wind
Lows through the crags of the mounts.
Her own is far behind, watching
Through doe-sick eyes that flick
Towards every coyote yelp. She wept
At the sight of handprints against the rock,
The sundial of ancient fingers, etched
Into the softer places; wept at the figures
That run in an eternal gambit; the dogs
That pant at the feet of no one; the ticks
That prove man’s mind has always
Leaned towards the counting of time,
Carved in the soft spots of rock,
The only parts that allow themselves to be carved.