Fajada Butte rises from the canyon floor, a stubby rock-hewn finger pointing up into galaxies and night.  All around the butte in the beaten earth the faintest circles curve, pressed like ghosts into the prairie dust.  Who gathered here?  I hear voices on the wind, smell wood and pipe smoke, hear the soft thunder of bare feet trampling the floor of the kivas, and wonder who stood atop the butte to catch the cycles of the stars, scratched petroglyphs into the sandstone, welcomed the oncoming clans.  What songs did these far-flung travelers sing in the medieval past of the American West?