Taos pueblo

Went to the Taos Pueblo, breathtakingly sad and majestic and dusty on this warm day. The Indians have profound cheekbones, and many of their adobe hovels double as shops for their humble wares of homemade tomahawks, dream catchers, carved bulls and turquoise gems. The rooms are small and smoky and their mostly small and bent owners are seated by a fire stove, one with a dirty old black dog at her feet between her knees. A gentle man with smart sad eyes hesitatingly told us stories of the poor mess of his lifetime, of his son who died, of his mother who couldn't afford schooling. He apologized, "I'm a musician, well used to be, a percussionist," pointing to his drums for sale, and I felt sad I couldn't afford one. Have a lovely day, he said, they all said as we left their dusty-floored huts, and their old heartfelt stories, behind. Driving away, Carol was thrilled to spot a prairie dog in a field but then said, "If they're out in February it'll be a long dry summer for the Indians."