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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.

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The opinions expressed in the Western Folklife Center's Deep West online journals are those of the online journal participants and not the Western Folklife Center. The Western Folklife Center does not moderate these journals and as such does not guarantee the veracity, reliability or completeness of any information provided in the journals or in any hyperlink appearing within them.

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