The hills are wroth; the stones have scored you bitterly
Because you looked upon the naked sun
Oblivious of them, because you did not see
The trees you touched or mountains that you walked upon.
But there will come a day of darkness in the land,
A day wherein remembered sun alone comes through
To mark the hills; then perhaps you’ll understand
Just how it was you drew from them and they from you.
For there will be a bent old woman in that day
Who, feeling something of this country in her bones,
Will leave her house tapping with a stick, who will (they say)
Come back to seek the girl she was in these familiar stones.
To live on a sterile hill
Suits not my mood,
I'll walk in towns my fill,
With strong resisting blood.
There is no virtue in stark fear.
Whether it be of Sin or Death,
But there is pride in walking clear,
Through Plague's contaminating breath.
Gold is under these hills;
And the wind piles sand
Through the cracks of deserted cabins.
Gold chinked over the counters,
Gold poured into the glasses,
Gold flickered and flamed
In the spendthrift gleam
Of a woman's hair ...
Gold is under these hills.
Gold in the empty sunlight.
Earth tips to the west
And the hills lean backward —
Cedar-trees
Hugging the hillsides.
Smoke drifts in the valley —
The pinto sun
Nickers over the gate
Of the home corral.
New Mexico hills
Are spotted like lizards,
They sinuously glide and dissemble;
If you take a forked stick
You may catch one and hold it.
Look up . . .
From bleakening hills
Blows down the light, first breath
Of wintry wind . . . look up, and scent
The snow!