beyond two gray hills

it was on the road to Shiprock, the narrow trail of black asphalt that
winds it way to the horizon, along tis path over time the footsteps
and sound of horses have been muffled by the wind and sage. Way beyond
the sight of any road in the cleft of a hill, there sits a small
wooden house with an old green roof. In that place the sights, sounds
of laughter, children and work made life easy. Hauling water, cutting
fire wood waiting to go school before the early light of day, watching
the sun rise and set and laying a trail of colors from blue, to black,
gold, yellow, pink and Navajo red. In the silence of the open road the
voices, songs of old come to mind. Sitting listening to the old men,
and the old women as the spoke of things that happened before my life
began, when there were no chidis-cars on the road. In silence I pass
the place called Burnham Junction and head South to Albuquerque
through Gallup, and looking west I can see the place of my births, the
line of my father going back.

There is no one there now, the place is empty, the wind howls and it
is cold outside. Who will know the stories of the people there, the
times and winter sings. Tell me Grandfather where this road I travel
will lead, it has taken me far from home and in passing here I see but
glimpse of light on the horizon, Where does it go?


Twin Heros, sitting at the head of the earth, navajo mountain, can you
see me run along the edge of the horizon, looking for a place to rest.
The cold wind blows, and is just before early light. I drive on and my
heart crys for the home I have left behind. It is there just over the
hill. I want find the beauty way, and it is beyond my sight, where
does this road go. It goes to places foreign and I long to turn
around. Hozhogo nahasdlii...

rustywire