Here, where we live...you can shoot,
a bullet into the wind.
It will spit it right back at you.
For, the wind will come...
it will press us to the east,
bowing us down...
as if, in prayer to Zia,
the Zuni sun.
Who then, are we master of...
not even of ourselves,
for the potters wheel spins
and we are perfected of the dust devil.
The little flower's know...
the cactus...
clinging for it's life,
with rooted toe...
nor drop to wet the tongue,
nor spit...to spit upon the ground.
For all our words,
the desert simply say's...
"quiet child...quiet down".
We must give to that great wisdom,
that is Father...
in the swiftness
of his rushing forth.
We must low ourselves
toward the sand...
even though...
he has not said a word...
we know.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016 Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: Land & Sky, Dancing dust devil
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