the three-part percussion

the unbelievable red glow
of the ristras (and other chile arrangements)
laid out in the sun on the table
in the railyard
and the draw of the drumming and other percussion
echoing out through studio doors
and all the while
clear sky that was supposed to be rain
the sun blasting its brightness
onto our
all of the rocks jan and melanie and i
can’t stop treasuring
because of lines running through them or
unexpected colors or
bits of shine or
the thousands of years of history
layered in
a word for watching the sangre de cristos for days now,
learning how they lay to the east,
understanding their sacredness as birthplace,
and only today do i finally
enter their edges,
walk along their waterways,
train my ears to their rustlings and
marvel at the tips and peaks rising
around me

the orange/red of what i believe to be desert willow
against the sagey dried yellow blue-green of the rabbitbrush (chamisa)
against the dark green of junipered mountain side rising
into sometimes blue sometimes gray sky
unsealing the sandhill salsa and setting it
on the table i grew those tomatoes i say
the largest number of people deported
under any president
the codeswitch guest
says about obama
and it’s still a marvel to me
how quietly it’s been kept
oh that’s bad amy says
that means the water’s really low when we tell her
about the pipe in the two mile resevoir
that we could see water draining into
that used to be santa fe’s main source of water (and is still some of the city’s source)
before the wells were put in
the three-part percussion
of the first raindrops of the night
hitting the roof/skylight plus
the click of zippers spun/tossed
around in the dryer across the hall plus
the sound of the emptied piƱon shells
hitting stainless steel camp bowl
next to me on the bed

shiz and gina reporting live
from their annual symphony outing
which i, for the first time in three years, amn sadly in absentia from