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Driving Navajoland
Jeffrey Richardson

only the desert rains like this,
insatiable thirst of sand and sage,
the road nearing flood
and the wet smoke of ceaseless raindrops
bursting on the blacktop,
misted red rocks and arroyos
forever dissolving
in mid-day’s dusky light

a woman stands suddenly
by the side of the road,
scarcely emerged
from the shroud of storm,
for there is no gate in sight,
no car broken down,
no path or barbed wire fence,
no track or sign of home
that I can see

only the grey-lidded eye of the storm

in the front seat a hurried exchange,
Dad slows and stops,
Mom rolls the window down—
the woman,
hands in the pockets
of a white rain coat,
smile bright on walnut skin
the sheen of her long black hair
tangled and wet,
she’s going just up the road a ways,
coming home from college she says,
school in Los Angeles 600 miles west

Mom moves to the back seat,
the woman climbs in front,
speaking little but eagerly pointing to landmarks:
the mesas and spires, the living stones
of Dineh stories in which she was born

it isn’t long before she says to stop,
here she gets out and thanks us,
here she walks away,
suddenly gone

there is no gate in sight,
no path or barbed wire fence,
no track or sign of home
that I can see

only the grey-lidded eye of the storm

driving across the desert
as sheets of rain thrash the land

—
Jeffrey Richardson is a retired journalist, as well as an author and poet. Born and raised in Southern California, he spent 35 years in Alaska where he reported on and worked extensively with First Nations communities throughout the state. He now lives in Central Oregon.

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