Tuco turned the
phrase over on his tongue,
“Waking up to what you do.”
Long ago, he thought he knew
what he did. Now, he wonders, what do I do now?
The horse moves forward slowly, careful.
And Tuco moves back into yesterday
as the horse moves down the slight slope of the
hillside.
The morning had begun as back country mornings
do.
Slight smell of pine and sage coming awake
as the sunlight slowly fills the side of the
mountain range west
of camp. The light edges toward the trees, the
hills around him.
Eastern light comes last
as the sun beams down into this valley.
Birds have been waking, squirrels rustle, crows
caw above.
The crow circles slowly. Finds nothing and moves
on
cawing to the partner slowly circling eastward.
Slowly, slowly, circle, circle, east, upward
spiral
then drifting down to tree branch.
There is no calculation, Tuco sees,
there is presence to what is
here
now
wafting across
the morning light.
There is, in the air,
waking up to what you do.
The horse dips his head
to graze on fresh grass.