A flock of sheep
like smoke floods the road.
Dressed in red banners, corn mothers
dance in furrows. Clapton sings the blues
to the passing blur of fields.
Trying to press onto Shiprock by sunset,
we enter into twilight, equinox.
Sabitaie,
the rock with wings,
the great bird that brought the Navajo
from the north, unfolds and emerges,
a Pliocene knife to the eye of the sky.
The earth’s shadow, a blue eclipse
below the belly of a salmon horizon.
We are no closer to knowing who we are,
than to where we were.
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