Tuesday, November 3, 2015


(how to watch a western movie)
I am watching pictures in a land the time has forgotten  -  
the shots rings out, and the gentlemen are running across
the field, into the arches, and they enter the shelter of a
from another time and place. The stubble on their faces
in close-up tells me they have been on the road  for some
period of time. A Mexican is walking along the dirt pathway.
He has a shaft of hay in his mouth, and he sneers, idly 
watching things transpire. He wears a serape in a
range of brilliant colors. A low-brimmed straw hat of
some kind is hanging at his side. Alongside him as
he walks, a dog keeps slow pace; a cur, to be sure,
ans it also stares. It is the color of dust, short-haired
and skinny, yet alert enough, and quite alive. The
fiesta has long passed, but there is still debris and
garbage strewn along the edge of the square  -  where
a short time ago, perhaps, there had been many people.
Stucco walls shield children, huddled around them,
from the sunlight and the gunfire too. The smell of 
cornbread fills the air. No other guns. No senoritas.
Just sound, and the alarm, and the smell of corn
baking, still in the air.

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