Mountain bike tire grinds against dusty ground,

Cutting a circular path around the tourist herd

The whiteness--of their T-shirts, their skin

Foreign against a backdrop of ruddy adobe

And red earth colored by clay, sun, and blood.

Sinewed legs straining against creaky pedals

His eyes, part bird of prey's, part child's

Follow their every awkward move.

Stepping gingerly, their footsteps soft with guilt

Yet bold with clumsy fascination

Make a beeline for a pueblo home-cum-shop

Sandwich-board sign promising: "Real Indian Stuff."

Long black hair sways under a baseball cap

As he reports to the grim-faced woman in the booth:

"They have not paid, the ones near the church,"

Slender brown arm extends toward a couple,

White hair, pear-shaped bodies, white skin.

With a close-lipped smile on his not-yet-angular face,

The sentry steers his two-wheeled mount toward the strays.

Taos, New Mexico – September 3, 2000

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