Its been a whirlwind lately. North to Wyoming, south to Texas, then yesterday west to Acoma for their feast day. Tomorrow I might pay tribute to the East(a short hike east at most). For now I am in the center. I dug a new outhouse hole and fertilized my melons. I also made my first fire of the season in the woodstove, it was so chilly this morning. Otherwise I didn't get much done. My brief encounter with west Texas over the labor day weekend was so unusual that it lingers like a dream, almost as if I wasn't really there. The smell of rain and creosote bush, and the black or zone-tailed hawk that I saw in the middle of Alpine, are my most vivid memories. My visit to Acoma was like entering a living dream of blue sky, white clouds, huge rock outcrops, centuries-old hand-holds in the rock on the way up, and down. Massive white kiva ladders leaning on ancient adobe and stone walls. Beautiful bare-footed dancers with multicolored mantas and eagle-plumed tablitas. The men half-naked with fox skins bouncing behind, black and white skunk-trimmed moccasins, shaking white clay-coated gourd rattles. Mountain fir boughs(in women's hands and men's armbands). The heartbeat of the drums reverberating in the narrow passages. Cool-aide, pickles and snow-cones. The water cisterns full of tadpoles(spadefoot toads), gulping air. Yellow sand and clean air. The mission church with pink trim and beautiful deer guardians, walls 1o feet thick. Ancient corbels and vigas, brought from far. Older than the United states. Fields of corn and chili, rock houses.
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