Within sight of the house, a white stallion is penned in a small corral, never cleaned by its owner, the horse is forced to walk and sleep in his own dung. Every day Bill feeds him an apple, talking sympathetically. This afternoon, from a nearby clump of grass by the fence, a snake pops its head out. "It looks like a rattler," Bill says. I'm not so sure, but stay a respectful distance away.

We have come from dream time.
We have come to let the rock figures guide us.

Later, I hike up the hill behind the house, climbing over the BLM fence, leaving a shred of DNA on black volcanic rock, skirting associations of spiky bushes, I stop several times, looking down to the valley patched with pastures, houses, the tiny corral, dusty roads, and its sharp teeth.

Walking along the ridge, petroglyphs drawn on the outcropped basalt, inaccessible as in Paleolithic caves, this triple-bodied, many-armed-like Shiva, that lightning snake and Humpbacked Flute Player, must have been made by shamans hovering over the cliff's face like hummingbirds.

The Way of the Spirit is the oldest, most basic and characteristic worship of Phrygia the cult of the Great Mother of Nature, called Kubaba by the Luwians east of the Halys, Kybele or Kybabe by the Lydians, Kubila or Mater Kubila in Phrygia, Cybele by the Greeks; she was also called  ('she of the rock'), paved with leaps into space.

Ts'its'tsi'nako, Thought Woman,
is sitting in her room and whatever
she thinks about appears.
Bill and I sit beneath a full moon,
like two ancient Chinese poets
drinking tea instead of wine.


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