On Piestewa in the Phoenix Mountain Preserve, 1/21/19
Foot before foot. Each journey belongs to each. The last clap is never the last. I often wonder if this hike will be the final. Then I’m back at the question again. Candlelit now but then it was the sunlit choking effect. I imagine writing “oaking” and can’t help but think of the Oak Creek Vista, and more Arizona laughter. Then Trump. The wall. More symbols. That insidious-cum-necessary laughter a symbol dispelling more and more, more and more, the thoroughfare, it is as important to stress this as it is the systemic prevalence of the Native American stores that are giving life and persisting to an enslavement. It is. And so it is. We walked by the man who said hello so helpfully it was hard not to be completely drawn on in. Vistas abound. Transport back. The man who carried their child down the mountain. The want to tell him: Great Job. And: the group of women and the single voice expressing an insecurity of height. The want to tell her: you are perfectly formed! An exquisite fondness. At the mountain’s top: can’t pronounce Piestewa, but try anyway, and pick up that empty bag left behind like a reminder.
