I sit astride life like a bad rider on a horse.
I only owe it to the horse’s good nature
that I am not thrown off at this very moment.

by Ludwig Wittgenstein

XIX

Tuco considered the depth.
Far below, the base of Spider Rock sits in shadow.
The sun, behind him, settles below the scrub trees.

He turned to watch the red build beyond
small stands of Utah juniper and New Mexican pine.

And remembered the time the young Navajo walked out
to the edge and hollored down
trying to locate his cousin
who hadn't climbed up yet.

Off toward Chinle, camp fire smoke rises thinly.
More back down the road angling southwest
toward the campground at highway 7.

The air stirs
and the smell of sage rises.
Tuco imagines he smells a chokecherry prayerstick
but he knows that's unlikely
this time of year.

He turns
looks down
one last time.
Each trip is shorter.
Each trip more removed from the one before.

Time, he thinks, time.
It is the trail where
the horse's good nature
is key
to fortune,
to memories
of fortune.