The Rio Grande

Canadian geese stand in chili fields off the banks in Albuquerque
while the water turns in on itself off the rocks. I’ve walked through
a lavender field to be here, the smell hanging in my sweater and on
the backs of my chilled hands. At the inn last night, we made a fire
on stone and listened to coyote howls between the cracks and snaps
of dry hickory. We walk back on the shoulder of the road. Today
there is nothing to do but drive deeper into this country. That’s all
I’ve ever wanted.