We’ve known Mack for years. He invites us 

to his new place in Santa Fe. We accept.

He’s itching to show us the high desert,

launches an ambitious two-day tour.

As Mack drives, he interprets 

high desert blooms, expanses of violet

lavender, bee balm, blue-eyed grass. 

Devil’s paintbrush shrubs point skyward, 

crimson spears jutting from the land.

At La Cienequilla, we marvel over 

petroglyphs. Figures swirl over

mythic land. Crested-head birds 

with hooked beaks dance with spindly

cattle. A hunched man in a feathered 

head-dress plays a flute. A hand hovers 

over the gathering, fingers splayed.

The meaning of “La Cienequilla,” Mack

explains, is untranslatable.

On the ride back to Santa Fe,

we face peach clouds until

the sun disappears. Dead 

volcanoes cast brooding 

silhouettes as ancient 

guardians of the high 

desert. Mack’s car almost 

levitates as we buzz along 

the flat strip of highway.

After midnight at the hotel, we grimace

and laugh over bad phone pictures. 

What the—? Why did we take that?

My phone chirps. After passing a truck, 

Mack’s car veered off a narrow road 

and crashed. He was gone.

The native flute player releases ancient spirits.

A river of melancholy winds through arroyos,

echoing against cliffs. To close, a grace note 

praises the sun and melts into desert wind.