The ponies straggle and scramble
Half way up, along the canyon wall.
Their listless riders seldom lift
A weary hand to guide their feet,
Stones are loosened and clatter
Down to the sun-baked depths.
Nothing ever has lived here;
Nothing could ever live here:
Two hawks, screaming and wheeling,
Rouse a few eyes to look aloft.
Boldly poised in a shelf of the stone,
Tiny walls look down at us,
Towers with little square windows.
When we plod up to them,
And dismounting fasten our horses,
Suddenly a blue-gray flock of doves
Bursts in a flutter of wings from the shadows.
Shards of pots and shreds of straw,
Empty brush-roofed rooms in darkness:
And the sound of water tinkling—
A clock that ticks the centuries off in silence.
[275]
