My son chases after his friends,
climbs up mesa cliffs,
catches cookies from Kachinas,
plays baseball on rock and sand.

I am back in Hopiland.
I know that it’s true because
my enlightened soul giggles,
my happy heart drums.

We inhale unpolluted air
mixed with sweet cedar scent
that billows from chimneys in valleys.
Separation between heaven and earth is indistinguishable. 

Multitude of hue is mesmerizing.
Mountain stratum is magnificent.
Red rock seems to erupt,
pours beauty into my eyes. 

Clouds stripe pure white against blue sky.
Magic, mystery, all around.
Hawks soar across mystical canyons.
Sunsets fill horizons with red, yellow, orange, purple glows. 

Nearly 65 miles away, snow-capped, cloud-draped,
San Francisco Peaks behave unlike any other landmass.
Three peaks chase wherever you go,
like portraits whose eyes follow every move. 

Wind gusts shake snow off summits.
Pale mist seems like steam rising off icy lakes.
Wherever you go, this holy mountain beckons,
welcomes you into its lacy lair. 

Wind blows over desert bloom,
whips tumbleweed cross highways.
Sand squalls resemble creeping fog
biting through smooth stone.

Thick quartz layers coat corneas.
Tiny particles seep into skin,
melt into clothing.
I chew sand, it tastes delicious.

Moons rise between mountains,
hide behind horizontal haze.
I can almost touch craters.
My spirit devours crystal beams of light.

Dennis Wayne Bressack
Woodstock, New York
Written on the Hopi Indian Reservation
February 15-21, 2003