Cliff Dwellings, near Sedona

Other mothers sat where I sit today
Grinding their corn
Or cooking it
They watched as their young ones climbed
Or careened along the cliff edge.
Did any ever fall?

She is certain of her immortality.
Would that I were.
The martins call and echo one another
The bowl of this home rings with their voices
And mine
And others, long dead.

Watch now, how she slides in ancient dust
Laughing at my fears
I wipe the dust from my face, leaving tracks
Open my canteen and share my precious water
Which other mothers hauled from the creek below.
Did it ever run dry?

The tomatillos are ripe
We ate the tiny berries as we hiked here
Freeing snags from our shorts and shirts.
Small dent those tiny fruits
Would make in a hungry tummy.
Her sturdy legs danced doggedly on
Down the trail of independence.

Other mothers fed their young those tomatillos
Once, long past.
The creek is nearly dry from the long summer
But the breeze is cool
Promising cold to come
What’s to eat then?

I hold my child in a brief stillness
Listen, listen I say
Do you hear the children of old?
Their cries calling from wall to wall?
Only the wind, she says
Silly mother, only the wind.