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By chris Date: 2007 Jun 18 Comment on this Work [[2007.06.18.04.44.3249]] |
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The ruins at Pecos are silent now like the space between pieces of music when the conductor raises the baton, waits. To the west the high Sangres undulate blue and green - a hurricane-tossed sea as seen from a safe distance. Higher up there is snow - white foam capping breaking waves frozen now, held by pinon and juniper and dry summer grasses that blow out like a young girl's hair as she walks a beach, taking only the most beautiful rocks for her pockets, looking for something just beyond the breakers where the ocean is calm. The ruins at Pecos hold the past inside the abobe walls of a church where wine became blood, inside the ghost walls of a pueblo where people made love. The sky above is as relentlessly blue today as it was then. The ruins at Pecos only rest. The conductor looks down once at the page then up, into a darkness filled with life, silent only for the moment. |