Cynthia Hogue
		That Wild Chance of Living Death in us goes on testing the wild chance of living. - Denise Levertov This morning we hear the air of Los Alamos is uranium- laced. Harmless amounts, a reporter reports. Wind tests the currents as we drive past, chancing to live here and not there: As in Salgado’s "Human Migrations," light- filled photos of all the places where death has gone on and on of good people on good days, as Lakota and Apache once said, to die, riding to fight the whites, that history flawing the tranquil town surface with ghosts, spirits, sounds from another time’s real we can sense. I called the angels by name, H.D. wrote of the Blitz— Uriel, Annael, Angel of Death, Angel of Peace. At the Saint Geronimo (Michael) dances lightning flickered in the distance. A young Coyote whirled from the circle of Clowns to climb the tall pole raised in the pueblo’s center, a flag caught on his belt like an irreverent loincloth. On top the pole, the dancer slowly turned, holding the flag whipping in wind rising as rain came. Did you know each one of our nation’s symbols is from war? my friend whispered. Thunder clouds hid Taos Mountain, the crowd humming when sun broke through and two rainbows glistened a spectral arch above an entrance that vanished without opening. Within a week the bombing began.