West Mountain

Here on a mountain made solely of stone,
I lean back and let the sun hold my face.
This is a juxtaposed place of alternate energy
with an unspeakable richness once you learn its language.

A maze of stacked stones shimmering in the Texan sun.
Each house-sized block painted in subtle color and shaped by Dali.
Thoughtlessly touch one with bare fingers and risk blood.
Caress them properly, precisely, for a glimpse at euphoria.

Train your eyes on the distance of the North or East.
Off towards the tan and brown Guadalupe Mountains;
an expanse of plains and steep hills, empty of the obvious.
Teeming, though, with the dancing spirits of those long removed.

But look South and West, not so remote anymore!
A notch between hills is a window to the sprawl, that dearth of soul.
Lights glow above the concrete dander of El Paso.
Across the river, an even larger mass - the more violent, more crowded cousin.

Fort Bliss does its best to ironically rend you from West Mountain's solace.
America's Army unleashes ordinance, slowly chipping the horizon.
The cannons belch their hate in preparation for a paranoid delusion.
But we hunker down to let the din pass, awaiting the return of peace.

Refocus the gaze - come back to the boulders.
A ringtail cat, curious but skittish, dashes past after a pause.
In his wake remains only the pertinent grains of weathered sand
made impossibly hard after millions of years of seasoning.

Returning to a breeze that revolves around the immediate.
The clatter fades, the mind empties.
Fingers and toes and inches of movement,
the only actors standing as the curtain draws.

Two worlds in tense opposition,
the Expansive and the Intimate.
The brilliant, fiery orange of an Anasazi sunset
while below, the impenetrable black of the coming night.

Sunset viewed from West Mountain.