The crow flies southward
And takes them to where the pinons stand--
Like short holy men in the sand
Waiting to be shaken, or perhaps soothed.

This cracked desert floor holds
Her Feet, His Paws, Her Roots--
As the sun's breath warms their palates
And the night's moon lays her love around them.

Look to this Window Wheel, this day this night,
This sky this earth. In this blink of an eye--
Under simmering red clouds and sizzling in pipestone
Can it be inside Mexico's wind where souls cry?

And far away the green saints sing,
"Roll me over, hold me over this lake of artists
Poets, the writers and crows--living and dying
And dying and living, hungry for a view. Flying low."