A group of cow bones lies perched on a rock downhill from where I sit. The beast has perished, all that remains of it sitting in a pile before my eyes – white, dry, cracking, bleached, dead. Yet the carvings at my feet are full of energy, life, immortality. On all sides of me are full figures – some with antennae, all that ever-watching look. The petroglyphs' lure, awe endured centuries since Spaniards and Mexicans passed on the Camino Real above me and mocassined Puebloans trotted on the scorching volcanic rocks before them. Fields stretch before me for miles, seemingly empty, barren, dull. But were I to be sitting there, countless wonders and other miniscule phenomena would greet me, just as I observe holes in the rock here – bubbles within lava which millions of years ago flowed down this very hill side, – the positioning of cholla on the purple rock, cacti with freshly ripe fruit – a sweet desert indulgence to nourish me on this blistering day. Here, the land is dry far beyond comfort and survival, yet below flows an acequia, and further the Santa Fe River.
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