Trading whiskey for a good unbroken pot. Cliff-top signal fires give a clue. A hundred thousand trees for lumber Chaco Canyon. Water channeled from the rim above. Along the creek ghost creek now a lover plays his turkey leg-bone nose flute.
Ghosts make love in creekside rushes, inventing poems where ghost birds stride on heron legs.
You keep score tossing for luck beneath the ox bow willow moon. We watched it lurch through windswept rock a squared off fifties Chevy wagon pecked from yellow sandstone. Ranger told us vandals put it there. Three modern girls wandered into rock twenty thousand moons ago. Now their vulvas look like clamshells.