The spirits laugh
at how the living
call ourselves that, and envision
their airy light beings, removed from this world
by an impermeable barrier keeping
the floating from the solid
In the canyon valleys
spirits' echoes sound and play off
the human voices laughing
coyotes gathering their hooting howls
the wind making their rushes by plants taller with each spring day
water weaving their slight but steady path through arroyos
the sound of a mirage of ancient village women walking down to the creek
is a sound of murmured conversations and a vision like an anti-shadow
a reflection of the glint reverberating off the pool of eyeballs into the hot springs
and beaming out again in the form of an ancient aunt
walking down the dirt path, wearing the way
where one day truck tires would be inspired
to make one too
not separate from any of these elements
or others, the spirits play and dive in and out and through
catching an ear here, the side of a shoulder there
alive and not just airy
or light
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