The skies are never cloudy there.
Lost men play with their knives there.
Badger hides in the canyon there,
and won't be found, not by suits.
Everyone has a mine there. Nothing ventured,
everything mined. The malpais skirts the edges there.
Rugs are mailed to Crownpoint from there.
The sun sets east of there.
Monsoons settle in, there, and wait.
Something tickles the feet there.
Mysterious beetles, black-tongued, questing.
Strong men with narrow waists move cattle there.
Don't ask who that is, coming over the ridge.
It's Dawn Boy, and it's you. Badger at your shins.
Coming down the ridge, past the old black land,
out of the sky and into the plaza.