Autumn in Albuquerque.
Climbing walls, looking forward.
Blossoming bursts of color in the high desert.
Troubadours - the role of the poet as singer, as voice.
The Rio Grande.
The Sandia Mountains.
The pain that was here.
The healing that remains.
Bald eagles still nest here along the same trees by the river that were pictured in kiva drawings thousands of years ago. Drawings depicting dances for rain.
Looking down on my beautiful city from
Sandia Crest of 10,600 feet,
I am home.
These mountains are major North American travel routes for migratory birds such as red-tailed hawks, golden eagles, sharp-shinned hawks and turkey vultures.
"The poet's primal voice is to pierce walls," summarizes my friend Margaret Randall in her book of essays "First Laugh." Nature knows no borders. Birds fly through countries. Bodies retain their cellular memory. We remember. We must speak the truth, our truth, to the world to allow healing.
Vistas await me...
wonderful new adventures.
The birds already know this.
Time to follow my inner instincts, migrations.
Balance with the Autumn Equinox in my beloved New Mexico.