across the river
the trickle of what was once Grande
I see them, huddled in their adobe squares
as the sizzling sun settles quiescently
leaving them in shielded shadow

then come the cook fires,
for the maize, the frijoles,
smoking the night sky
filling their bellies, filling my eyes
with visions of them, some silent
some filled with mirth, and song  
all with hope or fear  

as the moon paints their crusty hillsides silver
some will lie with one another--some will join in longing,
liquid union, planting sweet sighed seeds of hope  

others, alone, will fall into dread dreams,
while winds weep and mix with coyote howls
a few will even hear the owls call their names  
though the gift of eternal darkness may yet be
light years from their wretched huts

I may be there
to see the sun rise again
and repeat life's one act play,
anon and anon, or something may close
my own tired eyes, before the glory of their suffering
can be played again