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  World Party

The hills are a smoothly-weathered landscape; dullard
brown, rising behind town and running past it and down

to the river.  We watch it with distraction and a bonfire
among the gathered trucks and ephemeral tumbleweeds.

The green is the river flowing.  Some willows soften
the arroyo as it wanders through the mission canyon

and the jockeying headlights—and then, in the blackness
beyond the railroad trestle, it disappears.

Not much is revealed by the two, stoned and whirling
dancers:  you're sitting on the tailgate of a small truck

listening to what might be another beat to your life...
certainly not adobe or something you might have heard
    on the way to work.

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