Flash Flood ‘72
moonless night,
you and me packed
into that cobalt blue VW
logging a million miles from
chattanooga to chaco canyon.
the last twenty all dusty road
where jackrabbits big as ghosts
jump out of the darkness.
drive on to pueblo bonita where
we spend the night feeling spirits
rise from the kivas of the anasazi.
but in the morning, the ranger
says the sky hadn’t cried in
seven years and you better
get out of the canyon now
before the rain comes and slicks
up that clay road and
no gas till farmington.
no, came all this way,
just one more hour to climb
down that ladder
and feel the presence,
hear the silence of centuries.
where did they all go,
why did they leave their home?
why did they cut down every
tree for the timber roof now
long, long gone.
get out now, he repeats.
so finally, we did and it
starts raining, the first time in
a hundred moons and the tires start
slipping and sliding and
the tank almost empty.
then all of a sudden there
is a rise and we see sheep,
and then more sheep,
rain staining their woolly coats.
then over the rise
in a multicolored robe like joseph
raising a wooden staff like moses
comes a navajo shepherd,
as calm as you please,
and thankful, thankful for this rain,
rain that has forced us to flee.
and he watches as down the arroyo
the red clay courses like blood.
