Your orchard, birdbath,
the only sky blue propane tank for miles,
compose my map.
I drive through pale green,
follow the highway’s dashes,
crest the hill, sway with the curve.
In my rear view mirror, town shrinks,
dissolves in winter afternoon light.
I run my finger along the silver line
connecting Lamy to Albuquerque,
turn away from Tucumcari into the Ortiz.
Handprints along the basalt crestón
lead to your village.
Cottonwood leaves rustle like parchment
close to your door. We draw upon inked coordinates.
You hold the compass in the palm of your hand.
The Acequia Madre near my home
flows to the Galisteo River at your feet.
We believe the rivers will fill this spring.
Red banks fall into the bosque, into your painting.
We stamp letters out of the same vast sky.
I paste your three ravens into my morning.