After 15 months’ hibernation, the tents 
put up sail again—quietly at first. Then, 
with weekend’s arrival, wayfarers’ feet 
stir up dust on the disused path. 

Chromatic colors of sneakers, strollers, 
scarves, and baseball caps circulate
around flea market stalls. Even chihuahuas 
appear, resting in the arms of their humans, 
and a young child balances a piglet 
in his arms as he examines handmade beaded jewelry. 

We fist bump. We shake hands. And the conversation 
is all: “You made it! You’re here!”
The smell of roast mutton and roast corn 
wafts between stalls selling acrylic paintings, 
gospel CDs, silver, turquoise, herbal remedies,
flour sack aprons, T-shirts, mugs, fossils, rocks.

At one stall a woman displays a loom 
with her half-finished rug, reminding us, 
perhaps, that the work is done, yet undone.
A stack of baby quilts is testament, not only
to long hours at home under lockdown, 
but testament to hope.

At the Gallup Flea Market, the old blends seamlessly with the new: 
the handwashing station, the newly built stage for country bands. 
I buy baby quilts for two friends and leave before the dance, 
but by day’s end, I scroll through photos of couples, dancing, 
their eyes disclosing hope, the crinkles of their eyes, smiling.

The blue heron lives a solitary life, 
or so it seems, perched on shore,
peering at its reflection, 
like a chess piece pondering checkmate. 

Then, in one swift
movement, swoops, lifts, 
and wings
toward the wood, 
whose silence 
is pierced 
only by the cry 
of hungry beaks.

The weather changes 
by the hour.

The wind changes 
by the minute.

But my heart is Rock—

pierced, split, and cracked

only by the sprouting Seed
planted by your Hand.

On the steppingstones that cross the creek 
your boot left tracks thin as cat whiskers.

“Leave no trace,” they say.
And though, one day, we will leave no trace,

for now, we pack out trash 
and secure our gear on limbs 

sturdy as the saplings 
the beavers gnaw for their lodge.

One day we will leave no trace, 
but even so I like to believe 

we will leave behind
something of who we were,

something of who
we hoped to be.

A flower’s a labyrinth 
for pollinators. 
A sapling’s 
a log for a beaver.
A riverbed’s home 
for the snowmelt.
The belled flower, 
a beacon for the hummingbird—

who jostles among  
uplifted stalks 
but never visits for long, 
who sips while suspended, 
a flurry of wings, 
who resists capture 
even by photograph—

If you have ever sewn a dress—or 
tried—you must be impressed 
with the flower who tailors 
her blossoms seamlessly 
and perfectly proportioned.

Think how the beaver 
articulates a shelter 
of wood hewn from 
the living branch 
to weave a cradle of protection.

I came to a field
of flowers, seeking
nourishment, like a bee.

Those we love 
never seem to know
how much we love—
The bee hovers over 
the bee balm
the way I listen to
Einaudi, the way I 
crave you.

The tree offers shade
with roots deep
as mother’s love.
The tree shades us, 
her leaves, a manufacturing 
plant for chlorophyll
but even they, powerless 
without the deep work 
of the roots.

The roots never
upstage the leaves, 
nor even the branches.
More so,
like the unsung toil
of rootball, 
or heart’s muscle,
so much of 
the work of love 
is hidden.

The bee is a promiscuous
creature, never sampling
the same blossom twice.

I walked seven miles alongside 
a creek. The stream ran on and on 
over rocks. A squirrel clambered 
over roots, rustling pine needles. 
Wild roses lifted pink goblets 
to the sun, rain drops shimmering 
on fragrant petals. Nature
spared no expense. Even 
the short-tailed weasels
popped their heads playfully 
from between rocks and ran 
in circles. I did not solve 
any problems for the world, 
not even my own. 
But the stream rustled: 
“Here I am! Here I am!” 
And the bird sang: 
“Just be!”