My oldest nephew read this book when it came out.
He says-- he was 12, and he sent me a text, and said,
you are crazy.
[LAUHGTER]
So that was literary criticism from a 12-year-old, yeah.
This is the last poem I'm going to read.
And thank you once again, and thank you
to the friends and family of Morgan.
"To a Mojado Who Died Crossing the Desert."
And I think I don't have to explain with the word
mojado means to this audience.
"After a storm, saguaros glisten like mint trombones.
Sometimes a coyote leaps over creosote.
Hush.
The sand calls out for more footprints.
A crack in a boulder can never be an entrance to a cathedral,
but a mouse can be torn open like an orange.
Hush.
The arroyo is the color of rust.
Sometimes a gust of snow floats across the water as gracefully
as a bride."
Gracias.
Thank you so much.
[APPLAUSE]