After Moving to Arizona In the west now, high in stone mountains, among ponderosa pines, their long needles glisten when sunlight touches them, tops sway in the wind, down from the Canyon. The crows begin at 5:00, in nasal voices, to share their jokes, their liminal dreams. The light here, is it brighter, cleaner? The long slant at dusk? Van Gogh beseeched Gauguin to come to the south of France for the light. This light? When Nakai plays his flute, it comes as coyote night chirps from Wukoki. from yellow mesas and red canyons. This morning I am still, a fresh book on my lap, the breeze across my bare feet, I watch the weightless birds float on light.
John Ziegler is a poet and painter, a gardener, a traveler, originally from Pennsylvania, recently migrated to a mountain village in Northern Arizona.
Amethyst Review 