I run to
whatever
is shiny,
find out about
anything
new.

I sniff
a gleaming mica chip
a feather that falls
from the sky,
a pale blue turquoise bead,
a button,
the top of an old tin can,
and the pipe
that a miner
smoked by his campfire
and left on the ground
while she slept.

I take it all.

I am a gatherer of treasure . . .
of leaves
and berries and roots,
mesquite beans,
sweet red summer cactus fruit,
and a piece of a clear glass bottle
turned purple by the sun.

I stay
close to home,
close to the trails I know,
close to the rocks where I was born,
close to the cholla cactus
I climb so easily.

Everything I want
is here.

In the cool evenings
I search,
darting from rock to rock,
out of sight of coyotes and owls.

I run back and forth
with my mouth full of treasures.

I go home at sunrise,
pushing
and pulling
and rolling
all the good things
back to my nest,
my pile of sticks and dirt
and cholla cactus thorns.

It holds me safe.
It hides my shining secrets
in the dust.