The only noise the rocks make
Is when you try to relocate them.
They are told by sacred mountain
To hold its crystalline frequency like breath.
We are, too, so the sun can glow through
The changeable: Our DNA, sense of what’s real, the mood the horse is in.
At the top of the mountain the world is
In one direction, the desert the other,
Mexico a far-off glimmer though it lives here now
With all the tribes who melted into the mountain
Out at the edges of electric lines,
Where only bikes go by,
Some water towers swallowed by the hills,
Windows turned like eyes to the sun
As it descends on the golden sanctuary
That will hold the future world.
Ernesto, who lives on the switchback path,
Is no spring chicken when it comes to horses,
He knows every scratch and how they got there
And tells the rocks everything
And even the county authorities let the wilderness
Be his secret ranch to oversee.
A yellow ribbon affixed to the arena flaps
Too eagerly its victory in the breeze,
Not like the ribbon that winds the blue layered
Golden time of different frequencies held together
By the will of my eye to see it rise across veiled valleys
Veined with green. The fan of wind
Beckons the grasses into feather pens
Paid not by the word but by pollen count
For the universe that reads, like horses do cookies,
Its book, one fluttering page at a time.
