Little Hands

	Winding down the dusty trail
	from Cathedral Butte
	Walking towards the canyon floor
	playing Anasasi flutes.
	Eagles flying overhead
	beneath the desert sky.
	Makes me think of how they lived
	many years gone by.
	I wander here from time to time
	to give my head some space.
	Leave the noise and confusion.
	Vanish without a trace.
	Salt Creek runs through the grass
	as you hum that canyon tune.
	Brush against the desert sage
	just like some sweet perfume
	Eight hundred years ago
	this canyon was their home.
	Eight hundred years ago
	they walked through the sand.
	Eight hundred years ago
	they painted these little hands.
	Yes this is the timeless place
	that's seen them come and go.
	They packed it up way back when
	and drifted on down the road.
	The earth, the sun, the moon and the stars.
	meant so much back then.
	But the years go by and though you try
	you can't bring them back again.