FROM THE GARDEN
This side of the stream of evening
cars and pickups flowing up and down
the canyon, half-lit sorrel geldings graze
the fading green knoll: hollow ground
where native women stayed beyond
these bred, red heifers at the fence
mowing clover and rye like a machine
moving randomly closer in a single sound
of harvesting: a rhythmic slow dance
of efficiency. Each heavy head lifts, one
by one to look beneath the Palo Verde tree,
dark eyes in white faces: remembering.
Up slope across the creek, your father
scattered – mine a decade gone today
as we wander in and out worlds
before us. Beneath the hose-spray,
it is raining on fresh peppers planted
like leafy soldiers dripping from ridges
into puddled furrows – sweet aroma
of wet manure: last summer’s horses
standing head to tail, batting flies.