Sun glints from their feathered breasts
like ornaments in the crumbling Live Oak
that watched women grind acorns
when it was small, lost between the rocks
that have seen it all. First light near
the Solstice blinds the mind of time,
moments independent from our histories
and the monetary cravings of humanity
that are enough—once or twice a year,
after a rain, to awaken veneration
streaming through a mountain gap
to pick this old dirt—to expose
the tracks of moccasins in midden
walking with native gods, just long
enough to become a believer again.
drycrikjournal 