As plaintive tones from a distant flute
drifted across the mesa valley
the sun over Spruce Tree House
began its descent toward dusk.
Above the courtyard, Anasazi masons
plaster-sealed the final stones
on the great cylindrical tower.
Collisions of mano and metate
echoed across the canyon as women
crushed dried kernals into cornmeal.
Others hummed as their skilled hands
brushed thin black patterns onto
scores of newly crafted bowls and jars.
A young girl rushed up a ladder
to announce her brothers' return
from ripe mesa top fields,
carrying baskets of fresh cut
corn, squash and beans on their backs.
A summer of nourishing rain
promised that storage cists
would be stocked well with food for
the arduous winter ahead
and seed for the vernal plantings.
Dusk fell on Spruce Tree plaza
as rich aromas of venison
and fresh baked flatbread
suffused the crisp October air.
Anasazi is the fourth poem in a cycle called Echoes from Colorado.
