There is an abandoned orchard on the road that runs east
from the city to El Paso, and you can see by the old quarry
the furrows that are green with clover now in March,
pecans falling from the trees to the ground, their dark husks
open and not open. The black and red birds fill the quiet
with their singing.
We were quiet when we stood in the wash south of the
orchard, and my friend said she was afraid the animals might
come to the man we had found, if we left to climb the ridge
and call the police. We didn’t say, he has already been here for
months and months. You could tell he was a god by the way his
feet were broken.
Copyright © Margaree Little
Used with the permission of the author
on behalf of Poetry Northwest.