This night in cold moonlight earth rises up clouds float down ghosts walk the margin. Old ones sing now shall be then older ones still sing then shall be once to wolf and coyote. In this season of north winds sun’s heat barren spirits rise up dreams descend man lies interspersed. Women sing we are bearers men sing we are sowers.
We have decided to skip the viewing to say our farewells in thought without needing to see her face frozen in the morticians best attempt at placidity, erasing the anger, the fear, the frustration, the pain that made leaving easier for her than remaining. We will say the prayers, most of them, she with fervent hope that they are heard, I as a member of the chorus. Some will invoke both the father and son and spirits will be moved, and I will reflect, will listen politely and hope the universe is receptive to one who is now in transit.
Far out on the mesa the wind sings an alluring song to the melody of the wooden flute. You can sit among the sage, and like the orange orbed coyote around you, stare up at the moon and look for the spirits of the ancient ones that lived in these mountains, the tricksters who come out when the sun is carried off for its rest, and fancydance up and down the parched arroyos until they take the moon and depart before dawn, promising a return.