Miquihuana, Tamaulipas, Mexico

I eat in the chill:

The roosters’ 4:39 throats.

The soft rain, wetting earth from mountains
Towering high over valleys
The barley planting soon begins.

The burros’ sharp braying.

The birds’ irregular breaks.

The old men and women on stones to line at the clinic.

The women to the grinder for masa.

The tortillas, hot, four per peso, warm by the tortilla maker.

The presidencia’s bells on the hour.

The burros’ dark manure steam.

Early bus roar, beneath lights.

A pickup, a truck, a car.

And I see:

The eastern sky’s pink, white and blue -

And the western mountains’ rocky peaks streaked white from the east.

To have the fortune of birth, luck, privilege

Not to fall beneath Miquihuana,

Not to live each day riding
Into the dark traffic and thick air…

And they, the mid and late teens
Must leave to live
As the plaza’s iron,
Plants and concrete
Prop nothing ….
Only itself

Animal sounds,
Bells,
Stones,
Faces,
Sky of color,
To me:
Of chance ….

Eugene “Gene” Novogrodsky, mid-summer 2011