Only when you start withering
you notice your roots are drying,
then you might choose to sing to todas las brujas and remember:
comes the lullaby humming softly like the Rio Bravo
at the beginning of spring,
tales in tow,
of All who attempted the crossing.
I lay my espinita de nopal,
that sharp stabbing little accent
that hides under my plumage
like a cockerel spur,
across the parched river bed
so that the water, when it comes,
will blunt its edge,
I sing and wait.