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Driving over rutted roads
to escape the sound of six billion voices,
I flew into still
night--Chaco Canyon, 1999.
Firepit shadows echoed
off sandstone and cold
stars broadcasted etchings
of Ancient Ones dancing
by the ceremonial kiva.
Dawn whispered me from a sleeping bag
to the sun and silence of Pueblo Bonito
peopled by a crow.
Ruffled turquoise eyes
glared flute songs
through blue sunlight
roofs that called beyond overpopulated
interstates built with power tools.
Crumbled boulders pointed
toward the maize fields of Chaco Wash
one thousand years ago.
Five thousand Ancient Ones bustled in trade
of modern mysteries: Big Macs
in Cibola black-on-white pottery;
North American free trade
before the wheel hastened
transport of orange soda and nuclear waste.
Wings flapped,
one thousand years blew
through open doors of
the stacked village sprawled
over desert like Albuquerque condos.
The crow peered
through me, moved
its beak, looked toward
the city I left
for an eroding perch.
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