the last time the sky broke like this–
bearded faces wisped in gray,
runways into space where haze becomes earth–
was when we walked dry creeks
into the desert outside of Chinle
cottonwoods rattled in baked haze–
locusts jumped over splintered looms
and into the corners of hogans
evenings, we stuck matches into sagebrush
and dreamed of Navajo blood
pounded into canyon sandstone
by Kit Carson’s rifliers, who fired
like boys at a turkey shoot
we woke to ravens ready to pluck out our eyes
when we weren’t looking–
we climbed onto ponies hitched to medicine men
and we raised hands split rough and empty,
hands tired of fighting anyone and anything
there and then we rode away,
feathers in our hair turned to sunshine
