Drums

In the western sky
The setting sun
Was an apricot blush
The last of its furnace
In full retreat.

Beyond my rear window
A three-quarter moon
Cast a pale luminescence
Upon cap rocks
And wild terrain
Of northeast New Mexico.

I turned off my stereo
Allowing an ageless temper
To wash over me.

Just out of sight
A band of warriors
On painted ponies
And troop of cavalry
Thrust and parried
In a lethal contest of wills
Courage
And dare
Neither could fully win.

I smelled smoke
Blood
Fear
Just beyond the scrub brush.
It breathed through my air vents.
It was with me.
It crawled my spine
And sat beside me
For the next hundred miles.

Perhaps
What was never entirely leaves.
Maybe
The past is never really past.

Time is a river
Moving slowly on the surface
But running in swift currents
Just beneath what is seen.

Who can know?

I hear drums
And the shrill chant of warriors
Singing
“It is a good day to die.”