Photo by Brie Odom-Mabey on UnsplashLake Valley
At the end of the road, there is a gate
It is an old gate
The kind that takes two arms to pull
Common rez courtesy means the passenger opens the gate
while the driver passes through
The mud ruts make everything hard
An abandoned one room house keeps guard at the gate
Someone told me once a family of five lived there
I don’t know if it’s true, but it could be
There is a thrum in the ground
Petrified wood scatters with pottery shards
The wind carries small porous pebbles of ancient lava
In the distance, I see a group of wild horses
The days of taming them are gone
The road has alternate paths forward
A way cut through when the rains came
At the end of the road is the house, hogan, and corral
A lonely tornado ruined the house long ago
someone told me
Many people once came here for ceremony
My grandfather sat at the head of the hogan
A circle of us sat along the wall
Tobacco smoke holding the room, keeping us warm
There was blue corn mush and elk meat with piñon
There was tea in a pail
There was sweet corn and canned fruit
I used to pick out the cherries for myself
The thrum tenderized the ground
The drum pulled the room inward to the fireplace
A song carried out the chimney, ribboned with wind
that finds me here today, years later
opening a gate for ghosts to pass through