Road Home

Lying in a Hammock in Rose Mountain, New Mexico

Listening to wind,
I look up through branches of Pondorosa pines
into sky as blue as your eyes.

Here pines grow so close
that chickadee feeding can hop
between them, never opening wings.
High above, a pure white butterfly
rises along edges of farthest needles.

I can see across the valley into forest.
Wind chimes on the porch sing:
dung, ding, din, done.
Tomorrow I'll pack my tent and sleeping bag and flutes
and return to Texas to my son.

Two flies light on my face,
one on my pen.
Behind me, two men laugh loudly together
And I want to tell them to be quiet;
I am doing something serious here:
writing my first poem in six months.

Suddenly a family of nuthatch
take the trees, pouring air with song.
A woodpecker rides waves of melody before me.
The white butterfly stills itself on my boot.

I am a fortunate man.