The girls' lashes flutter like kites where there would be safety in seeing sky meet ground. But this is a wood where hairy creatures sneak while girls skip innocent with the pine needles crumbling around a corner. Down bristling on milky necks, the girls shiver with beginnings of intuition. Ignoring what is behind or above, a fall to pavement-opened knees, scraped palms for this modern rite of passage. Those who jumped are women now peeping under cars in a parking lot.
Compliance comes with years of waiting for someone to pop out of the closet.
The girls in towels forget to close the shutters, lock the doors then find themselves exposed in the house and out. A morning sun tints green pines red. It is crisp in the Sangre de Cristos. The room is filled with words neglected in English dictionaries. Rough-hewn chairs of equipale, a glowing kiva that brings kachinas' shadows to life.