On the rocks of South Mountain in Phoenix, Arizona, are remnants of a dead civilization. Deer and dog and spiral art over a thousand years old splay sun-facing, greeting hikers, joggers, bikers, and brother coyote. “Look at the color of the sky,” the stranger said, focused on living blue and ignoring the fading art. Had she seen it too many times before? The rock art or the sky? I stood among them, unnoticed, surveying the art, the sky, the sound of a screeching bird. They stood among us, the bones and spirit of the Hohokam, unnoticed, burned into the desert, their rock-deer fading day by day. . .
These words our silent footprints,
along the path of time,
like drawings on the walls of caves,
that none may ever find.
Our thoughts were once a living thing,
and like bones they will be scattered,
neither created nor destroyed,
someday none of it will matter.
You’ve given these words a purpose,
now carry on the same,
for the poets who walked among us,
long lost without a name.
—a poem by Ben Bump