THE RED WOLF
Over the heart of the west, the Taos desert
Circles an eagle,
And it’s dark between me and him.
The sun, as he waits a moment, huge and liquid
Standing without feet on the rim of the far-off mesa
Says: Look for a last long time then! Look! Look well! I am going.
So he pauses and is beholden, and straightway is gone.
And the Indian, in a white sheet
Wrapped to the eyes, the sheet bound close on his brows,
Stands saying: See, I’m invisible!
Behold how you can’t behold me!
The invisible in its shroud!
Now that the sun has gone, and the aspen leaves
And the cotton-wood leaves are fallen, as good as fallen,
And the ponies are in corral,
And it’s night.
Why, more has gone than all these;
And something has come.
A red wolf stands on the shadow’s dark red rim.
Day has gone to dust on the sage-grey desert
Like a white Christus fallen to dust from a cross;
To dust, to ash, on the twilit floor of the desert.
And a black crucifix like a dead tree spreading wings;
Maybe a black eagle with its wings out
Left lonely in the night
In a sort of worship.
And coming down upon us, out of the dark concave
Of the eagle’s wings,
And the coffin-like slit where the Indians’ eyes are,
And the absence of cotton-wood leaves, or of aspen,
Even the absence of dark-crossed donkeys:
Come tall old demons, smiling
The Indian smile,
Saying: How do you do, you pale-face?
I am very well, old demon.
How are you?