A Journaling Morning Walk at Bandelier

Sitting here on a rock in the shade 
of cottonwoods and pines,
a fly joins me on this open page;
sunlight spotlights its smallness,
its shadow longer in the slanted light.
It flies up to bother my nose, 
then goes. 

Here in Frijoles Canyon the trail goes three ways:
To Alcove House through the trees along the Rito,
down the Falls Trail toward the Rio Grande,
or up the Frijolito to the mesa top.

In my heart I want to take all three at once
to see where each will go.
But I am only one pair of legs,
and have no wings like that fly!

I choose the Frijolito, take 
this zigzagging, steep climbing trail 
up to where once there was a lively village
called now, Frijolito Pueblo Ruins. 

I climb, and climb, stopping to breathe,
and look back over Frijoles Canyon; 
below the circle of ruins— and across,
cliff dwellings—dark holes in the rock.

This silent place above the rock I sat on first, 
this trail I followed here, up to this wild space 
full of wind, where I walk to find it traces— 
rock mounds where walls once stood, each room
now hidden between rough saltbush and junipers,
each room once warm with voices.