old truck had a flat
at the foot of the Sangre de Cristo* mountains
on a rutted brown road, by a singing stream,
swollen from snow melt, the sagging bridge across
looked too tired to handle our load

we replaced the bald tire
with one equally hairless

we were washing
the grit and grease from our hands
in the baptismal waters, when we saw him,
so small we were surprised he could walk,
and her, at the other end of life’s long string,
so old she moved like a question mark down the bank,
a bucket in one sinewy hand,
the tiny boy’s paw in the other  

we crossed to greet them,
though neither of us knew why...  
but we were under an infinite blue sky  
and on four wheels again--what else was there to do,
but cross the rushing waters to meet strangers
by a strange road?  

the little one spoke, with words so small
they disappeared by the time they reached our ears  
how we knew what he was saying we would never recall  
though we did as he commanded, taking off our shoes,
placing our feet in the cold current, following his lead
in this dance on a nameless road  

the ancient one never uttered a word,
but gestured to us, to the sky, to the blue green peaks,
and to the waters at our feet, and told us, with skin and bone  
that the blood of everyman flowed from the high country,
and washed our tangled toes
and simple soles