The first two storms of the autumn pattern have blown through quickly in the space of a week or so. They brought in some clouds, wind, cold and a little rain. The normal blue skies were covered in deep storm cells. Sometimes the rain rattled on the metal roof; sometimes it was a curtain spread across the far mountains. Winds blew hard from one direction and soon another. As the storms broke apart and headed for the plains, the clouds raced by, headed for the continental divide; at night they were like grand ships sailing under the moon. The new storm pattern confirms that winter is indeed on its way. Seasonal changes bring about new routines in the non-human residents of the ranch. Sparrows are feeding like plump little chickens on the sunflower seeds brought to the ground by frost. Tarantula spiders are prowling all over the place, maybe seeking winter quarters.  The dog pack stays a little closer to the ranch house, usually. Even the free range mule seems to be taking a new interest in the house.           

   For several weeks I have been searching out the location of a prehistoric pueblo. It had to be there; myths, old maps, and rumor said so. Also the area would be an exceptional farming location in recent Neolithic times. Three attempts to find it were disappointing, and so I took a step back in distance and time. Easy to find once I tried to see it through more ancient eyes. A rock-strewn hill out of place against a small mesa; stone and clay evidence of who lived here and what they did. Farther up the canyon were the remains of smaller dwellings along what was then a perennial stream. Small check-dams along the course were ideal growing spots.  At the top end of the canyon, I scrambled through the boulders to the rim. Evidence showed that the ancient ones enjoyed the elevation as much as I do.                                                         

  I heard the old man calling from the mesa behind the ranch. His voice came from out on the far end in the rocks where I had never been. When I walked out there, he showed me evidence of the deer-hunters and told me how to find the corn-growers village. Stop looking and begin to see.                  

 From where I crossed the shallow river in the great valley I could see the main pueblo sheltered against the mesa. Climbing the small hill, harvest activities were all around; it had been a good season. The corn was in various stages of being ground and stored in large pottery jars for the coming winter. A couple of the deer-hunters were new residents of the village; spending the winter in a comfortable pueblo and providing meat for the village. I walked out beyond the village up the canyon past small dwellings and people working   garden plots   along the stream. I followed the old trail up through the saddle and on up to the point of the mesa. I could look down on the villages, farms, and people and wonder why they had to go away. Or if they are still here.            

 Louie and I and the dog pack dance now in the morning sunshine on the east terrace. The traditional biscuits always improve the situation. The older dogs still need to be coaxed, but the younger one tries to join in. Sometimes, Louie and I dance inside because we can, and we always have.