Marching to the drummer
Across the canyon
From where I walk.
Rhythmic echoes, pounding drumbeats
Like the ticking
Of a clock.
Miles of trails and distant rivers,
Manzanitas, Oaks, and pines.
Hardened heels and herds of goats,
And long-forgotten mines.
The only time that matters,
Is how long until the night.
Move like the Raramuri,
Who keep following the light.
Dancing fiercely o’er the mesas,
With partners
Made of rock.
Often soaring skyward,
Flying freely
Like a hawk.
Layer upon layer
Of color fills the sky.
The magic of the distance
Inundates the eye.
Subtle tailwinds urge me forward
And gentle headwinds hold me back.
But like the local people,
I maintain an onward track.
Then the drumbeat fades away,
Yet still, the land has much to say.
I close my eyes and faintly hear
A beating heart that’s somewhere near.
I realize it’s underfoot,
The sound is rising
From the dirt!
It’s good to know
That even though
The drummers come and go.
The land I cross
Lives on and on,
And the beat is never gone.
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