OK.
The next poem, it's another prose poem.
It's called Afternoon, Rillito Creek.
So that's local, too.
A tall girl in a red windbreaker ducking
as she enters the stables.
A little awkward, her arms full of hay.
The sun feeds on her close cropped hair.
Inside, two horses stamping, Charcoal blue mesquite,
the haze of blond grass.
West, along the river, cottonwoods, a whole row
of them, gaunt.
One every 50 yards.
Leafless, like a line of dead presidents,
their roots stopped, curling back on themselves.
The horses are outside now, snorting,
the shadows of their long heads combing the stubble back
and forth in the rusty light.