IN THE SANGRE DE CRISTO
The stones hold the memory
of water flowing and will tell you
the story when you listen.
Sometimes it’s so quiet you can hear
a breeze rippling over the shell
of your own outer ear,
or the crystalline whoosh
of raven’s wings. Sometimes
you can gather no sound at all.
It may not be a relief at first.
Coming here from town the peace
may seem too strange. After a while
these silent moments will be precious.
You may find yourself mining time
and the landscape for quiet, though
you’ll find that even here you
have to wait. Wind, a train, birds
and squirrels keep their own counsel;
and the dips that carry silence
are easily lost as they slide through.
Pay attention—the story is long.
You can catch a few words