The Bosque is black behind the

two-way mirror of train glass.
What moves, moves without notice
away from the noise and desperation
of this machine.  The river slips south,
fattened by snow melt.  Reservoirs are
eager and corpse like in this drought.
The bleached banks crumbling under its
persistence.  The soft brown belly of the water
turns to the sun, it is not submission but a
luxurious stretch across this morning.






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