LA COJITA

The wind across the altiplano leaps
And halts like a club-footed child. The lame,
Incessant cries of sheep more slowly claim
The chill domain wherein the river sleeps.
Upon the bridge, the hill, the homes, light creeps
To clear the ridge of whispers, and the same
Pale signs and sounds bid us define the name
Of God on the face of a girl who keeps
The flocks: Leonora limps the dry land
Of awkward plants and trilobites. She smiles,
Rests a pebble in her sling, and tilts
It till the stone arcs into sky on bands
Of simple clouds, then stings the ground for miles,
While in her laughter the crippled plain lilts.

(Provo, Utah, 1981)