CHACO CANYON / SCULPTURE OF SILENCE

by Dick Altman

More than 300,000 acres surrounding Chaco Canyon that are currently off-limits to drilling could be opened up. Environment New Mexico received a letter from the Bureau of Land Management confirming that the Public Lands Order protecting the area is “under review.” Nearly 90% of the surrounding area is already open to drilling. Chaco Canyon should be protected. —Environment New Mexico, September 25, 2025

Northern New Mexico

The name 

Chaco Canyon

may mean nothing

to you.

It means nothing

to me,

until I escape

New York’s

clamor and scream,

to live

in the calmer 

precincts 

of Old West’s

Indian Country.

 

We’re taught

to think

ancients

of Indigenous

culture

were mainly

hunters

and gatherers.

Chaco proves

they were

builders,

sculptors,

on a monumental

scale—

imagine

so-called “great

houses”

with eight-

hundred rooms—

unparalleled,

before,

and long after,

Columbus.

 

I’ve explored,

many Indian

remnants.

The walls 

mostly adobe,

or coarse

stone block.

Chaco’s edifices, 

stories high,

overwhelm me.

Many erected

with slivers

of sandstone,

some thin

as knife blades,

I see in them,

not architecture,

as such,

but fine weaving

or embroidery,

of the most

commanding,

exquisite

artistry.

 

I lose myself

in Chaco’s

deep valley

of silence,

its serenity,

so void of sound,

wandering

its remains,

transmutes

into moments

of transcendence,

unlike few

I’ve ever

known.

 

Every now

and then,

an oil derrick,

its mechanistic,

prayer,

endless,

to venality,

as I see it,

shatters

Chaco’s

centuries

of unyielding

spirituality.

 

The stench,

toxicity 

to soil

and water,

signals

an irreverence

for a Native

American site,

that deserves

the rare awe 

and esteem

we reserve,

in my heart,

at least,

for Egypt’s

Pyramids,

reflecting

the grandeur

of human

dream,

and reach.

 

 

Dick Altman writes in the thin, magical air of Old West’s high desert plains, where, at 7,000 feet, reality and imagination often blur. He is published in the American Journal of Poetry, Santa Fe Literary Review, Fredericksburg Literary Review, Foliate Oak, Landing Zone, Cathexis Northwest Press, Humana Obscura, Haunted Waters Press, Split Rock Review, The Ravens Perch, and others here and abroad.  His work also appears in the first edition of The New Mexico Anthology of Poetry, published by the New Mexico Museum Press. Pushcart Prize nominee and poetry winner of Santa Fe New Mexican’s annual literary competition, he has authored some 280 poems, published on four continents.

BIRDS OF DARKNESS

by Dick Altman

The Perseid meteor shower at Eleven Mile State Park in Colo. in 2024. Eleven Mile is among several state parks in Colorado working on becoming certified with DarkSky International. (Eric Schuette | Colorado Parks and Wildlife via Colorado Public Radio, September 1, 2025

Carefully crafted and robust public policy is crucial to fulfilling DarkSky’s mission to restore the nightime environment and protect communities from the harmful effects of light pollution. We are involved in various efforts to influence the decisions of various lawmaking and oversight bodies worldwide to  formulate, adopt, implement, evaluate, or change public policies on outdoor lighting. We partner with various government entities to support policy priorities that reduce light pollution and promote quality outdoor lighting. —DarkSky

Northern New Mexico

My first night

living in Indian Country,

on the seemingly

boundless

high desert plains,

begins as I step

from my pickup,

to peer

into the blackest sky

of my life,

and not a light

anywhere near,

when out

of the far eastern

horizon,

you,

a shooting star,

burst,

to journey

one-hundred-

eighty degrees,

traversing

the entire

visible heavens,

to what,

to my eyes,

appears to be

the other side

of the universe.

I’m too spellbound,

to count how long

you take to make

this unimpeded,

rarest

of nocturnal

crossings.

 

Did Indigenous

spirits want

somehow

to further

approach me,

when at twilight,

a few nights later,

I walk up

a hilly road,

alone,

I thought,

as a Great

Horned Owl,

wings open,

glides

from the top

of a juniper,

straight for me?

I know your call,

and just as you’re

about to pass

overhead,

Hoo! Hoo! Hooo!

I chorus.

As if you abruptly

hit the brakes

in mid flight,

you circle twice,

above me,

no more than

two arms’ lengths

away,

before

your feathered bulk,

dissolves

into the fading light.

 

Instead of treating me

as an

outlier,

you spirits,

so it feels,

continue

to reach out to me.

I walk up

the owl hill,

only this time

a streak

of astral flame

races across

my view

at eye level,

just before dark.

I can’t tell

the distance

between us,

but I swear

I hear

an orchestra

of super-heated

gases billowing,

fluttering

like gale-driven

sails,

soaring

across night.

 

 

Dick Altman writes in the thin, magical air of Old West’s high desert plains, where, at 7,000 feet, reality and imagination often blur. He is published in the American Journal of Poetry, Santa Fe Literary Review, Fredericksburg Literary Review, Foliate Oak, Landing Zone, Cathexis Northwest Press, Humana Obscura, and others here and abroad. His work also appears in the first edition of The New Mexico Anthology of Poetry, published by the New Mexico Museum Press. Pushcart Prize nominee and poetry winner of Santa Fe New Mexican’s annual literary competition, he has authored over 250 poems, published on four continents.