The Roadrunner’s cry like a hawk
has changed to deep flute songs
calling spring like Kokopelli

in poppies on Sulphur Ridge,
wildfires spread across the green
where snows have lain.

Always his drawing in my mind,
these golden slopes he climbed—
the poem wrote before he died

too young, thirty-five years ago.
Sulphur sings his song today,
remembering all we can’t forget.


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