Pueblo Indian Village

Some time ago I found myself driving nowhere on my birthday. It’s not unlike me to take off by myself when that time of year comes. This year I ended up in Taos New Mexico. Not knowing where I was but enjoying the area, I parked and dragged Lois my trusty camera out, put on my boots, and started walking. The snow was knee deep, clean and crisp. I could smell coffee coming from somewhere and I followed the scent. A block or so later I looked up and saw, this.
I did not know it at the time but I had walked into a Pueblo Indian Village over 1,000 years old. This, was the cemetery. This was their people. In awe I walked on, drinking it all in afraid I’d wake from the dream.

Later I would find a woman making bread inside one of the mud houses, in a mud oven. Inside it she proudly showed me her oven, and gave me fry bread that she had just made. I took it, hot, wrapped in a towel and ever so grateful and feeling surreal I walked precariously through the snow with some stray dogs following me. We found a spot angels must have painted. Icicles dangled from tree limbs and an icy cold creek ran through. I reluctantly shared my bread. We sat quietly together, and I turned 38.