The arroyo follows water
that passes through.
Mineral-red, intent,
it wants only
the way of water
that does not gather.
Along it, sprays of chamisa brush
resist browsing creatures,
resist need of rain,
grow fists of gold blossoms-
the daughters of stoics
with their shoulders to the sun.
From the juniper-clustered bend,
coyote watches its joke,
its scat cairn,
without a care for audience.
She will hunt at dusk
where sinkholes evaporate slowly,
lapping with her tongue
beneath the tamarisk
And now, early snow settles low
with strewn pebbles.
Daubed with arroyo red,
it will wash the desert again
toward the Rio Grande.
The snowmelt will flow
from Taos to Matamoros.
Ravens laugh.
Their throats of madrona wood
and tumbling stone,
they ride wind currents
every day,
up and down the arroyos.
