Anne, on this matutinal November morn I hear your words and like a clarion
they touch me. Years ago, as a child, we would toil, or play, in the land of
Eastern New Mexico; Daddy, Mama, my siblings and me. The eight of us, a
family, and love filled my life and my days. Oft we would be there, in the
fields, when the sun would begin to say goodbye for the day; the saffron light
poured across the red clay of the earth and daylight segued into dusk. Hawks
flew to and fro and let out their shrill cries as innumberable bunnies hopped
to and fro, families as well, preparing for night, seemingly unafraid. I
played as well and could hear my mama tell me to "get busy" but knew she would
not enforce her words. The green crops seemed endless before my eyes and the
expansive plains went on and on, forever. Never to roam, never to want, never
to leave this place for this was home, this visage was eutopia. Sparrows,
kitties, dog, lizards, horned toads, snakes, badgers, chickens, guineas, ants,
mother, father, brothers and sisters; what more could a boy want or need? The
days had to end and always did so though I fought the arrival of night with
all the strength a young boy could find.
They would come at those times, each night. Running quickly on thin,
spindly legs. Rapid and quick, darting about the dune like soil; appearing
and then quickly gone. Echoing and ringing; sweet longings, wistful
whisperings caught each touch of breeze as we listened. "What is it Daddy?"
"Hear that Mama, what is it?" ---"That's a killdeer." Almost ghostly,
surrealistic was this creature, this bird, this singer of beauty. Imprinted
into the soul is its cry, its song.
Now, so long past those days, the killdeer sings to me again and that is
Anne.
mack
