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“The people of the stone houses are gone,
whirled like chaff over dry fields,
scattered by the war dances of dust devils.
what remains —
sculpted walls, curved shards,
small stores of corn —
says little.
What we know is that they lived like birds.
That from their doorways
they looked out and out
over shimmering trees
into the arms of sky,
And that one day, light-boned,
weightless as any winged flock
before a journey,
they rose and flew.
—Mesa Verde”
― No Roof but Sky: Poetry of the American West
whirled like chaff over dry fields,
scattered by the war dances of dust devils.
what remains —
sculpted walls, curved shards,
small stores of corn —
says little.
What we know is that they lived like birds.
That from their doorways
they looked out and out
over shimmering trees
into the arms of sky,
And that one day, light-boned,
weightless as any winged flock
before a journey,
they rose and flew.
—Mesa Verde”
― No Roof but Sky: Poetry of the American West
