Little Hands

Winding down the dusty trail
from Cathedral Butte
Walking towards the canyon floor
playing Anasasi flutes.
Eagles flying overhead
beneath the desert sky.
Makes me think of how they lived
many years gone by.

I wander here from time to time
to give my head some space.
Leave the noise and confusion.
Vanish without a trace.
Salt Creek runs through the grass
as you hum that canyon tune.
Brush against the desert sage
just like some sweet perfume

Eight hundred years ago
this canyon was their home.
Eight hundred years ago
they walked through the sand.
Eight hundred years ago
they painted these little hands.

Yes this is the timeless place
that’s seen them come and go.
They packed it up way back when
and drifted on down the road.
The earth, the sun, the moon and the stars.
meant so much back then.
But the years go by and though you try
you can’t bring them back again.