Outside, the flute wind blows song
through our desert hollow
while an old woman chants coyote prayers.
Spontaneous percussionists scrape and tap
at the windows and rain gutters
around the two melodies.
Someone dances storm themes
in the husk-light of the naked moon.
Their silken footprints
near my sill.
I used to twirl in the dark
late at night,
alone. Yes, only then. Alone,
arms flung, legs brazen.
I havenít spun inside the velvet
of eveningís silence
for years now.
Though, in the late hours, I still hum
my own evocative purling
stirring up the emptiness.
I move from window to window, look out
into the slant of earth against sky,
find no one
but the silver ghosts of shadows
flickering like candles
exhaling last fulgent breaths.
© Copyright 2005 Susan M. Botich