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Winding down the dusty trail |
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from Cathedral Butte |
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Walking towards the canyon floor |
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playing Anasasi flutes. |
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Eagles flying overhead |
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beneath the desert sky. |
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Makes me think of how they lived |
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many years gone by. |
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I wander here from time to time |
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to give my head some space. |
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Leave the noise and confusion. |
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Vanish without a trace. |
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Salt Creek runs through the grass |
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as you hum that canyon tune. |
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Brush against the desert sage |
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just like some sweet perfume |
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Eight hundred years ago |
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this canyon was their home. |
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Eight hundred years ago |
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they walked through the sand. |
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Eight hundred years ago |
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they painted these little hands. |
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Yes this is the timeless place |
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that's seen them come and go. |
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They packed it up way back when |
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and drifted on down the road. |
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The earth, the sun, the moon and the stars. |
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meant so much back then. |
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But the years go by and though you try |
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you can't bring them back again. |
