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Navajo Dawn
by Diane Westergaard
My Lord what a morning
When the stars begin to fall
On this November night
I am back in the red rock
of the San Juan River,
waters opaque with silt.
On slickrock above a wall
where Kokopelli pipes
his eternal silent song,
an oboist plays Mozart.
It always sounds different
depending on the season.
The firmament arcs over the dark;
Arcturus, the quarter moon,
the last meteorite. Not even
a bird breaks the silence.
Stars fade to blue glass sky
behind calf-colored buttes.
Cottonwoods, still as milk,
accept the expanding light,
a curtain between angels
and the ravens that comfort me
during the day with their
monogamous croaks.
Like the door of a hogan
my tent faces east. Next to it
I huddle in the cold and wait
with the still eyes of a lagoon.
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