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by David Chorlton |
| Immigrant Seasons Another spring, another wash of lupines and Mexican poppies, and a little more of the past disappears in the drought that makes kindling of the landscape. Summer after summer, the heat is layered on us, who come from far away to sweat as we gaze into a canyon too narrow to hold more than the moment we live in. In a fall when nothing falls except the sun on its daily journey to the countries we come from we try to hold on to the most recent of our memories in which we walk with no destination and rest only to grow back the strength for going further. Winter arrives without warning, bringing a few swift showers and woodsmoke. We take our old clothes from a closet just to try them on as we would a disguise. Moving Over an expanse populated by hawks and illusions, leaving nothing but a tire track on pale dust, we keep pace with the mountains that move in and out of their shadows, from their cool season to the heat at the speed of light that passes in its own slow time through the eyes in red rock and drains into the mesquite spotted land where the lightning is dry and even a straight road is a question mark. |
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