I'll read you-- yeah, I'll read.
I'll read you "Juan's Last Trail."
There was Juan [? Sagasta ?] who worked for most of us.
He was from-- oh probably about 50 miles to the South--
probably not quite that far in Mexico.
And Juan would come you know when he ran out of money
and he needed some work.
And he'd stay as long as he wanted and then he'd leave.
He wasn't too reliable but he was
he was a delight to be around.
Anyway, this is called "Juan's Last Trail".
There's old Juan walking along the ridge line from Mexico
Route 2 through the border fence then down the rough side
of the Canyon to the Escondida camp
where he hoped his friend Walterio would be waiting.
Tortillas in a sack, a half filled bottle of tequila.
Old heart walking centuries singing dry times these range
lands and wet back trails.
His own people Sonora Mexico.
Where are you headed, Juan?
Where there's work to do, he'd say.
Old vaquero following traces of cattle
trails, drifting through these blue Peloncillo mountain range
lands to find work in America.
Humming the flies along that winding path,
trembling side oats seeds.
Mira, there, says Roberto, look past those mesquite leaves.
Faded Levi's, tan shirt, sombrero by the cliff rocks.
Where the trail climbs the ridge line, do you see him?
A hawk goes gliding low over Juan's bones.
Sunlight and the rains, summertime the worms,
odor like a cow dead about four weeks.
Grease from his body turning the sideoats grasses brown.
Grease, coyotes, lightning, who knows.
Early fall clouds rolling over these ridge lines.
Our bodies, clouds dry falling seeds.
Pretty quick, a man disappears in these winds and the creeks
and the mountain sands.
Oh dust in the wind drift in now on this Guadalupe Canyon Trail.
Where are you headed, Juan?
Siempre tengo mi camino in la punta de los pies.
Always my way is before me he said.
Only the tips of my feet know where I will go.