Crossing the bottom of the arroyo in the four-wheel, 
stones rolling under tires, I look up to the far bank.  
Against early light, a coyote on the road ahead, 
 
loping with coyote indifference.  
He looks neither left nor right.  
But his ears are back.  
 
Above us, the moon is looking down at the sun 
below the horizon, watching its approach, 
waiting to be extinguished.  
 
As I top out onto the mesa, he turns north
onto a faint track across an open area.  
I stop when I get to the spot; turn off the engine. 
 
The emptiness is sudden.  He’s vanished.  
No movement.  No sound.  
We wait.  Each testing.  
                        

Two of us together should be able to clear this patch today.  
Get ‘em before they go to seed.  Nothin’s worse’n
tumbleweeds.  I see you’ve noticed the thorns.  That’s
their protection.  But like lots of things that cluster, 
stem’s the weakest part.  Cut it off at ground level. 
No.  No spray.  Poisons everybody’s water.  
 
Stem’s at the center, but they’re too close together and too big
for a sickle or hoe to reach it.  Shovel’s the best tool.  Slide it 
underneath—like this—and hunt around for the stem.  
Thing’s weaker than you’d think.  
There it is.  Shove the blade through it.  Hear the snap?  
 
That gray stallion over on the ridge?  He’s a big one.  
Been seein’ his tracks lately.  Heard me workin’ yesterday, 
and came up through the junipers to see what I was doin’.  
Stood there like a neighbor waitin’ at the fence line.  
Ears were turned back, though.  He wandered off 
after a bit.  Must not have liked my conversation.  
 
Prevention’s the best defense.  If we don’t cut ‘em off 
before they go to seed, they dry out, stems break.  
and wind sends ‘em everywhere.  Here, 
take my shovel.  Give it a try.
 
Yeah, the big fellah came back after a few minutes.  
I heard hooves pounding over on the road—
more than one horse—and up he comes.  Real close
for a wild horse.  I looked behind him to see what
was doin’ the chasin’ and saw the white stallion 
that’s king of the roost around here.  The young bucks 
 
want their own band of mares, and the easiest way 
to get one is take someone else’s.  Not yet, buddy.
That white’s got plenty of scars.  Seen him fight, too.  
He  just stood there watchin’.  And the big fellah? 
Moved around behind me so I was between ‘em.  
No, I wasn’t afraid.  White’s got him buffaloed.  
 
You know, it’s dry here.  Talking makes you thirsty.  
Let’s get some water.  You must be parched.
                        

big drops striking 
sunlight slanting 
jagged splashes 
 
the cloud moves on 
 
water slips away 
takes the violence 
beneath your feet 
 
the aquifer accepts 
 
and air percolates  
like the raw side 
of a pancake 
 
this place 
it takes your breath