From Durango I She sat cross-legged on the cracked, dry hill flicked an ash and watched it roll down between grayed sage and rusted beer cans towards a stumbling-white river. Her feet were dusted gray, face browned and tight and eyes warm-full of the valley that settled at dusk like a newly shaken blanket, spread out carelessly. II I walked into the river this afternoon, uncautiously (April usually keeps us apart). Feeling the mud climbing sucking at my toes I smiled, long smiles shocked cold at the pain of newly transformed snows biting at my too-long protected feet. III It's easier to turn my face down valley, my eyes flowing with the river, knowing these mountains are at my back - and you inside me filling in the gaps like rain puddling on a spring-rutted road. IV Walking in dusty shoes within the foothills behind the house I play the game again: I am eight, these rocks are orange balls, of marble circles (unround, drawn quickly with a stubble of chalk and fingers) and shrieking girls who stagger off balance on white-painted hopscotchs like unwound tops. Then, the bell. Recess over-I go back to dusty shoes. V Sun-weathered and bound by time my hands are now growing old. Beneath the creased facade squirms the bones of a five-year old, defiantly awake, and mocking brown wrinkles. VI At the airport we stood apart and waited for the rain that unhurriedly tried to come, stalling in gray sheets off on the mountains: knew it would shortly cover us with its obscuring, dusty-wet breath. Reaching out I took your hand, (holding only the end of your arm) and spoke of the birds I remembered from childhood that I could now hear. You straightened your hair against the wind and watched the sky, not for the rain or the birds, but an over-due plane. And I let go. I pressed my face against the car window, watched the place receed, consumed by a rain-smeared sky then turned on the wipers, so I could see your going. VII Resting bare legs and arms on dark, dried mountains I am alone and one with quiet. Pulling away at dusk, I go reluctantly, rising on dirtied knees and rock-pocked elbows: temporary momentos of the affair. VIII This morning you brought me six dandelions. Delighted (my first this year). I put them in water, watched, touching the warm and soft heads of furry yellowness. Tonight they are brown, wet-brown, dead. Disturbed (this disgraceful passing). Dandelions should go naturally, slowly whitening to crisp dryness, then catching a bit of wind, sail off quietly. Judy Thorn