By Abel Ashes (All rights reserved)
Hot coffee flows from cups to mouths.
Pink clouds hang in blue skies.
The pueblo is nestled in a cave on a rock cut from the earth by a celestial putty knife.
A scarf holds back sweat keeping his forehead dry.
She still has most of her own teeth.
Her face looks like a sweet palm date ripening in the sun.
Their sheep are a noisy huddle of dingy white fluff enduring the heat in the shadows of golden leafed cottonwood mated to red earth and stone cut at sharp angles.
Her hair is grey like Beijing smog, but clean as arctic ice.
The cold, the hot, the sun, the snow; this generation leads to that until the Sun dies.