The figure must be a mirage
existing in obedience to the sun
beating overhead,
yet I see
shimmering ebony feathers
heat unruffled as if in black pitch
fusing into a perfect shadow
directly underneath feet
that do not lift from the simmering
flat surface of a desert rock,
a staid gaze
that burns into something ethereal
penetrating beyond the prehistoric-layered palettes
of violets and rose-tinged browns
where no trees grow,
a solitary profile
as generations of its kind have been
seen first by ancient Navaho
and carved eons ago
in heat-stroked walls and cliffs,
and as I reach out to touch hesitate
instead defer to unction,
drop raisins and Ritz
pour warm bottled water over the feet
as a libation
that quickly evaporates into dry heat
before it reaches the rock’s cracks,
step back,
but no movement, no shift
of the day-infused
hypnotic watch,
no tilt of the head.
Surely in darkness
the eyes are closed.
Delores Busbee Merrill, Niceville Florida. With an MFA in Theatre and MA in Creative Writing she taught at a college in south Alabama then retired from working in theatre at a college in northwest Florida. She has had plays produced locally and regionally, poetry, short fiction and nonfiction published in literary magazines and various chapbooks, and has won photography ribbons in regional competitions.