The legend 
Rises from the sands
That settle
At the feet of
Mother full of death
And holding child
Shadowed by the night
And light from moons
In full display
That lay within the touch
Of ragged brush strokes
Shaken from the droplets
Of tradition
Woven in the color
Of the sandstone
Gristle
   lashed
      upon the hide of
Wind and rain
That trickles from the
Crevice of creation
Crouched beneath the wings
Of eagle
   breath
And swelling harmony

(c) 1996 James Oliver Smith, Jr