The Desert is Magik

I know the flesh of my sisters
so well over years
and notice the new mole
on the neck next to the soft hollow
where the breath makes the skin
rise and fall.

I myself have new sun spots:
this one on my chin from that desert weekend
a year and a half ago.
That one from goodness knows where.

We all three go for a hike,
maps and memory honing to a secret petroglyph.
We get lost.
And due to chidcare time restrictions
and phone dates, the party splinters.
I find myself alone on the treasure trail,
silent and still since the start of our reunion.

The wind breathes a gentle kirtan
And small birds with grey backs
speak in a language I wish I understood.
The cottonwood leaves are gold beyond measure
and the blue sky
is nothing
but absolute perfection.
The red rock, my oldest spirit friend,
hums and looks on.

The raven sentries
who have been watching us since the start of our walk,
caw into the canyon,
clicks and cries
reverberating
on the walls and fins and washes.

I am reminded to listen,
to listen is all.
To the sound of the sun and the rock,
to the timbre of my sisters' voices and bodies
even as they discuss what to have for dinner
or if the dogs have eaten.
It is the precious melody
of ancestry and soul,
roots and heart
that supports my own harmony,
if I am singing
or simply
siting
quietly.