Fiddler on the Hoof

I follow the fiddler up into the pinons, trimmed by god like bonzai trees. Out of the shadowed bulk of the front side, I emerge into the quivering blue. My movement is strong, long strides. Fiddler is a woman silhoutted in the wobbly sun as it drops toward the Abiquiu butte. She moves with skipping steps and dipping shoulders up and up, into the umbrella of trees smoothing the rolling humps like velvet. I weave up the trail, switching back and forth up the steep pitch. She's lost me around a bend, but I know I'll catch her. I'm gaining strength again, my breath dropping back into my stomach like food. And there she is, where the sunlight drips through a slit in the rock, and splatters the trail around her black feet. She's playing notes that slow my pace, draw my eyes through the glade toward the upswell of wooded land on the Pueblo. I know in my heart that winter is settling in the aspens and cottonwoods leading toward Blue Lake. Fiddler won't be around much longer. My head swivels back toward the first foothill peak where I can see that the sun has not given us up. I'm slow-skipping behind my lady who alternates between a dirge waking up the ghosts, and an old-time soft-boot jaunt. Coming upon the highest knob, I'm turned with the trail back to the hills behind me and see a forest in Brazil. Can't be. I'm losing her, she's steadily moving. Her notes soften, lengthen and swoon low before piercing me on the up-pitch as I curl around the throne of rock that is my sacred spot. All I find on the throne are three small rocks piled on each other. I take a sip of water from my kamelback, and then remove my sweater and underlayer. She's gone, but has left me with silence and friendly ghosts, and a town a thousand feet below that starts to twinkle, one light at a time.