It is fascinating to listen to the world wake up in the morning. It’s as though everything is still and frozen in time that even the birds are hesitant to start their morning songs. But then suddenly, as the first stretch of daylight crawls across the lines and rows of rooftop houses, you can hear the whole Earth start up in stages. First the signaling of the distant trains, their own morning song in a way I suppose. Then the rest of the neighborhood follows suit in a chorus. Car engines rattle on to melt the ice off their windshields and they too, groan and moan not yet ready for the daily grind. I picture people sipping their coffee while their kids quickly and hastily brush their teeth to make it to school on time. The buses stagger in lines to greet them at their doorsteps. One by one the birds unruffle their feathers in the treetops and begin to rise in song. The streets that just lay undisturbed moments ago, pristine with a thin layer of 4AM dew, are now bustling with car exhaust and scurrying street cats who are simply trying to get out of the way. And you in the midst of your tossing and turning murmur something in your sleep and I wish I could lie here forever.
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.