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Aztec RuinsStanding here at the beginning of the ruins, we inhabita sky full of cries too numerous and varied to be identified. And what would we call them? The bird that cries like a man.... the bird that buzzes with the locust pinched in the thumbs of a branch, the bird with the voice of a broken whistle, one last breath....just before it breaks, the bird whose periodic cry is a bright thread through the bullrushes.... These warbles, clicks, cries of surprise throng us with a language we do not understand our own voice, the lost voice of our fathers meeting our mothers so long ago, the voice of whatever calls us into being... |
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Issue #11, September, 1999 :
Santa Fe Poetry Broadside.