With chagrin, the raven flies over land of enchanted scrub. To higher ground he soars where ruby sun glistens on purple rounded hills below rugged piney mountains that looked to men of old like the shed Savior’s blood. To seven thousand feet he climbs upward, thin air, Santa Fe. Planting pine nuts lower is for the average crowd of birds. Oh, he feels it starting deep in nut-filled bowel the birth of a piñon tree planted on higher ground.