These are my happy times, when harvest begins, when I can walk and work this aging body of mine.
There is love in the valley for those who wander into their fields and let the final fall sun brush the fading brown skin once more.
Sun-rays waiting, leaning more to the south land and segueing and arguing the age old argument with the northerner winds.
The South-West pueblos framed by yellowing leaves a ripple multi-colored feathered bosom
Billowing clouds shake out slivers of silver ascend mid fall rain scaling the mighty mid-heavens crawling, fingered rain on the sage brush plain.
I look about the land the land that will forever love me,
I look at my hands cut and scraped still strong, raise them up into the west here comes another Pueblo Indian sunset
bright orange red, rich like no other, fused in the depth of my memory, deep like love in beauty without end.
These are my happy times.
these are days of the pueblo harvest.