  IN SUMMER
TODAYToday we leave my mother's hogan my mother's winter hogan. We leave the shelter of its rounded walls. We leave its friendly center fire. We drive our sheep to the mountains. For the sheep, there is grass and shade and water, flowing water and water standing still, in the mountains. There is no wind. There is no sand up there. PACKINGMy mother's possessions we tie on the pack horses, She tied their feet together and with her shears she clipped their wool. She cut the wool but once from underneath. She did not fumble, cutting it here and there into short pieces. She cut the wool but once. Her hands were sure. My mother's hands were strong. She pulled the wool back. She folded it back to come off in one piece. My mother's hands were strong. The sheep lay still beneath her gentle fingers. Trusting my mother's hands, the sheep lay still. But now the poor sheep are cold. They stand in their corral this morning and shiver and bleat and call loudly for the sun and for me to come. THE GOATSGoats lead the sheep. They go first into everything. That is their way. They are not afraid. My uncle says in the English, "Goats are tough." Goats eat the grass too far down. They eat the trees too far up. That is their way. They do not care. My uncle says in the English, "Goats are tough." Goats, more than sheep, get into my mother's stew pot. Their meat is good, but it takes chewing, too much chewing. I say with my uncle, "Goats are tough." HERDINGAfter we have eaten our morning food, my father and my uncle ride down the steep trail to the Trading Post. My mother kneels beside her loom before the cottonwood shade. I see the sun on my mother's brown hands. I see the sun on my mother's black hair. I give my mother a long look, then I turn my back. I walk to the sheep corral. My feet are brown. My feet are bare. The wet grass parts to make a way to let me pass. I walk to the sheep corral. My skirts are long. My skirts are many. The flowers move back to make a way to let me pass. I walk to the sheep corral. I let down the bars. The sheep go first and I follow. The sheep walk slowly for they like to eat the short sweet grass under the trees. I walk slowly for I am lonely. Things here are strange. I am afraid. I know that my mother sits before our shelter weaving a blanket at her loom. I know she is near me, but I cannot see her. I can see only tall trees and bits of sky. I am a child of the yellow sand. Mesa top and pine trees, green grass and colored flowers are strange to me. Unknown things live here. I am afraid. I creep to the edge of the mesa while my sheep are feeding. is the world I know, the yellow world of sand and wind and sand. Far below I see sheep walking, someone's sheep walking, in a dust cloud of their own making. Far below I see a sand whirl made by an angry wind fighting the land. Far below I see the heat haze, colored heat haze blanketing the desert. I see these things through tears for they are the things I know. I am lonely without them. Here on top of the mesa is a strange world of shadows and water and grass for the sheep. I had forgotten that. Grass for the sheep to give them life, to make them strong. Here on top of the mesa there is grass for our sheep. Surely the gods are good who live here. |
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