I walked down the arroyo
this afternoon, mid afternoon,
say three (not keeping track of the time).
The sun was three fists high in the south,
the shadows long and diminished by light
glinting off sand, glancing off shiny surfaces
of yellow dried weeds.
Branches of mesquite and willow
were filled in a luminescent fog.
If I were a watercolorist, I would paint this.
I would lay tints of transparent colors
on the sized surface,
let the colors flow and intermingle,
making tints that light chooses,
interacting with the white linen rag.
Like the pigment diluted to a wash,
I feel transparent in this moment
as if I am painted,
a mere form suspended on this atmosphere,
structured somehow among the particles of light
that blow through me, not against me.
I am also light,
weightless,
translucent.
The Weekly Avocet
A New Mexican Poet 