Of magic, of burning small
branches, turning rain and old rock
into wind-ruffled stars.
Of night at the edge
of the Gulf on the bluffs
above Santa Clara; night
so black there is no seam
between cliff and sea, so clear
we can see beyond Antares,
so still we hear singing
on the inland train to Guaymas.
And in the morning, beside the ashes,
tracks where Coyote has wrestled
his bag of stars into the sky.
