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Creel, Sierra Tarahumara
He ran to the mountain.
They were arguing again.
This time it rained
warm, covering him
the way she should have
but yelled instead
at father.
When the steam stopped
rising from the ground
and the sun’s bleed
lessened
he walked back
past the tire shop
the old dog barked at him
and then stopped.
He came in the back door.
She had made tamales
and he was eating
quietly by himself-
The battle over.
He sat and ate too
and saw his future-
The mountain, the rain
the mist, the steam
And the silence
that comes after.
Copyright ©
Douglas Brown
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