A final hour of sunlight. Early November
on the backs of crickets, the garden bare
but for the peppers that still bloom, somehow—
ajicitos and serranos, a thick-eared poblano.
Poblano: del pueblo. Of the village, the people.
Of the people, by the people, for the people:
words plucked from war’s dark wind—
gold-veined, brittle and blotched
as the poplar leaf that flits from my hand.
Where will I come to rest? Where will we?
Of what use our years?
A cloudless, azure sky. Wood smoke
in the air. Long shadows, tongues of night.
by Justin Hunt
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