sheep springs
is clearly in the
     middle of nowhere
not four-corners qualified
or capitol of anything
it boasts only the trading post
a small cafe and
the chapter house mandated
by tribal headquarters
for local...

   in reservation terms
   that would mean something
   between 50 and 100 square miles
   of sand and sagebrush
   interspersed with dry washes
   arroyos that can fill
   and kill in an instant
   when rain on distant mountains
   comes too much too fast and
      finding it cannot seep down
      into the earthy womb that opened for
      the first kachinas and the
      afterbirth of navajo mythology
   flees the hills and rushes dirty red 
   down the previously mentioned
   dry washes without warning
   across highways 
   where dips instead of bridges 
   surprise unwary tourists

...meetings and events of grave importance
like the theft of hosteen's saddle
the one his father gave him
u.s. cavalry insignia
still deeply embossed... 

   hosteen recounts again
      how the soldier with the sad eyes
      had no other apology
      after the infamous long walk
      simply took the saddle from his horse
      set it at father's feet
      and rode away bareback 
      shoulders slumped with the burden
      of turning warriors into shepherds
   because the telling of the story
   is a vital page in their book of remembering

...which the tribal police duly noted
and will watch for at 
the fair at window rock
the rodeo at shiprock
though everyone knows there is little hope
the saddle will be found

while hosteen slowly shakes his head
at the loss of this piece of his past
his face shows no emotion
for that is not the navajo way
instead he talks of days
when the now dry reservation grew green
with grass that reached the stirrups of the
saddle that is gone
the drought that took it all away
days when he could leave things
atop his corral and they would stay
it is not right he says
that the honor of our people
has dried up like that grass

her loom is handmade
sheep handraised
wool handsheared
handcleaned and handcarded

plants for dyes
she handpicked with her cousin
when the color of the evening sky
behind the starkness of spider-woman rock
hung hazy muted lavender
like russian thistle blossoms
dried and steeped for hours
the water waiting only the yarn
of what would be for her
another labor of need
need to pay a bill
feed a family
grandchildren too young
to be of any help
children gone here and there
some to work
some to drink
one to california

the pattern grows
row by row
mind to hand to thread
   it was a full winter ago
   this thread was spun
   when the snow was too deep
   for even their horse to challenge
   the snows had caught them unprepared
   and except for emergency food 
   and hay helicoptered in
   they would have grown very thin
   but would not have complained
   would not have dared offend
   the earth, the gods, the elements
   by seeming ungrateful for life
   however harsh
she never draws her patterns
simply conceives them
and weaves them into something 
she hopes will please the trader
   she pauses thinking ahead
   how they will bargain politely
   (she taught him the art)
   and she will feel she has won
   if she takes home an extra bag of flour
   the twenty-five-pound bluebird brand
   and cash enough for gasoline
doesn't worry past that or wonder 
who will own her latest work
and will they understand the "ch'iindi" trail
the purposeful imperfect line 
woven in to let her spirit out

today she wonders only
why the child in california
is so silent