Coyotes, yes. Wild turkeys, you bet. Brown,
cinnamon and black bears. I’ve seen them. Deer walking away from me slowly and
fearlessly. I’ve seen them. Wild ferrets with reddish-brown
tails have sneaked past me many times. Squirrels have scolded me
endlessly for presuming to sit under their tree and do nothing
but lose myself in the song of the wind and the green-hued landscape
of the mountains.
But I’ve never seen a lobo salvaje en
el bosque. Nunca.
So I want to talk to you about a free and proud
creature I’ve
developed a relationship with over the past year.
I walk regularly along the bike trail in the Bosque here in Albuquerque.
Last fall, as I walked just north of the Barelas Bridge I saw
a Road Runner. He was sitting right alongside the paved bike and
walking trail, in a small depression he had scratched out of the
earth.
I almost missed him, because he blended so well into the terrain.
He was not scared by my presence and just watched
me very carefully as I huffed and puffed my way past him. I’m one of the few
persons who walk along the trail. Most users are bicyclists, who
blow by me at varying speeds, but generally move at warp speed
in their spandex pants and light-weight helmets. The roadrunner
knows they don’t see him.
But because I move at speeds considerably less than warp speed,
the road runner noticed me noticing him. I nodded in greeting and
he nodded back. Our relationship had begun.
During the fall, I would occasionally see my friend, the Chicano
roadrunner of Barelas, catching a few warm rays during mid-afternoon
or late afternoon. Always, he was sitting in his favorite small
depression, where the sun shone directly on him, right beside the
trail.
I noticed that he was mostly all gray, with brown striping. But
I also noticed that he had two small brightly colored patches beside
his head, as if he had accidently rubbed up against a mallard and
picked up the neon-bright multi-colors of a Tingley Beach duck.
Cool.
I saw my Chicano roadrunner on the last day
before I left for the winter solstice holidays. And on my first
day back on the trail in early January, I was happy to see the
roadrunner—he had
now become MY roadrunner-- sitting in his usual place, still watching
me, but looking a little friendlier, it seemed to me.
Then, he disappeared. For the rest of January, for all of February,
I walked daily and never saw the roadrunner.
I got worried. What if he had been run over? What if a coyote
had done what comes naturally and feasted on my friend?
It got to the point where I started praying
to the spirits of my ancestors each time I neared the road runner’s
hideaway.
My prayer to them went like this:
Oh my ancestors
I pray to you today to bring my roadrunner back.
Seeing him will make me happy and fill my heart with joy.
I always look forward to seeing him sitting alongside the trail
And it makes me feel really special when I go walking
And meet him on the trail.
Ancestors, please grant me this small happiness.
Please bring my roadrunner back.
Thank you for granting me this small favor.
Nothing changed. I kept walking, but I did not see the roadrunner.
Each day, I repeated my prayer to my ancestors as I neared his
nest.
February passed without a sighting.
Then, in early March, as I walked down the trail and neared his
nest, I had an epiphany.
I was saying the wrong prayer. I had been asking my ancestors to
bring me a happiness, to let me see the roadrunner for my pleasure
and my joy.
As I walked that day, I changed my prayer:
Oh my ancestors
I pray to you today to protect the roadrunner.
Make sure he has enough worms to eat.
Let coyote choose someone else to eat when he’s hungry.
I don’t need to ever see roadrunner again, if you will only
grant me this small favor:
protect roadrunner and make sure he is breathing the air I breathe
and living fully his roadrunner life.
This is all I ask, ancestors.
Thank you for granting me this small favor.
As I passed his nest, he was nowhere to be seen, but I felt okay
about it. My prayer was no longer about me, it was about roadrunner
and that made me feel better. I lost all my anxiety about wanting
to see him.
On my way back along the trail, there he was.
We nodded politely to each other and went on our separate paths.
Now, we see each other occasionally, nod and keep moving. Speaking
only for myself, I’d like to think our relationship has
moved to a whole new level.
As I said, I’ve never seen a lobo in
the wild. But like my roadrunner friend, it is enough for me
to know the lobo is out there, baying at the same March moon
that hovers above us here, and breathing the same air as we do.
