The Red Hills

by Charles de Lint

Things I saw today:

two crows, more than once,

flying close enough to hear the

whisper of their wings;

a red tailed hawk,

wings outspread,

tan against the blue;

snake-thin lightning

jumping from the midnight clouds

to the tops of the distant hills;

mesas and red rocks

and Indian ruins

that could only be seen

from the hilltop high above them;

a rainbow, flickering colour

against a black wave of clouds;

dry washes,

where only the memory of water

moves in the dust,

and rivers, surrounded by

valleys of lush growth;

dusk, velvety and deep,

tinted a purple red

in the last rays of the sun.

This is a land of light;

badlands that not only reflect the sun,

but glow with an inner radiance

that makes the dark clouds gleam,

the red hills sing.