To the Critics
Conundrum unraveled
on a rock in the wilderness—
cholla thorns denied entry
by hide thickened to the task.
Yet I sit exposed
to fears that crouch and wait,
to the menacing scrabble of phantom rats
circling where I sleep,
to the dark portrait
a stranger's hand rendered.
At sunrise, I see
what I have hewn.
I step from the long shadow,
struck through with light.
Another day of building:
my words the bricks
mortared into a life—
as the eagle weaves her aerie,
as the coyote excavates his earth.
In the cool of morning,
with a weathered smile,
I take up my tools and build