Underneath
the shuttle tires and
the sneakered feet,
the voices directed
everywhere but inward,
are the old voices
of the red land.
Enfolded light
of late afternoon
burnishes the standing
walls to copper.
And I anchor myself
to the streambed.
Green rustle
on each side.
Oh, I can hear you.
Not only you,
the first peoples
who soaked this land
into your bones and
lost it. But also
before that and before
that. Before the first
foot landed here.
I hear you.
The song.
The red-soaked,
holy song.
