Power Blind

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Y aqui voices chanted in Moki’s ears as he loped up Jackson Street, his stride keeping pace with the water drums and rattling gourds. This wasn’t really a San Francisco sidewalk beneath his feet, but the Red Rock Trail into the Chiricahuas. Those weren’t shrubs grown tight against fences, but tumbleweeds trapped by the Sonoran wind. That wasn’t a sprinkler, but a headwater spring feeding desperate patches of peppergrass and sage… each alive only by the grace of the weeping earth.

The boy glanced up as he crested the hill, his view of the darkening Pacific framed by six-story cliffs of stucco and brick. A startled pigeon-no, a desert nighthawk-swept across the dying sunset, then spun and dove toward a swallowtail emerging from the Flower World below.

A-la in-i-kun, mai-so yol-e-me, hu-nu kun, mai-so yol-e-mee

So now he is the deer, so now he is the deer

Moki pressed his palms against the earbuds, leaving himself deaf to all but the Mexican harps and the violins and the flutes of the Deer Dance singing in his head, the hunt played out in song and shuffling feet from dusk till dawn… through the eyes of the hunter, and of the deer.

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