born on the side of a highway
in the heat of summer so dry
learned our letters carved in cacti
it is time now,
the horses long dead
our bellies with gravel and grit
have been fed and the sun sets ahead
we must strap on our sabots
and hike up our skirts
in the cool of the night
face wetted by tears
an echo of a dream of rain
we walk into the darkness
hearing howls at a sliver of moon
hope our path is true
before we are nought
but next year's dust
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