I pile brush
under a sky
pewter gray.
Vultures circle
overhead
over the field
one hill away
where a cow
past her prime
is being laid to rest.
Beef which forms
income to purchase
the next generation.
I pile brush
dry and crackling
so that we can burn it;
hours of labor
gone in fiery instants.
Clearing the land
so that we can start
Anew.
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[…] request, this post is a translation of a poem that appeared a few months ago. Susana, so sorry it has taken me so long! Also thanks to […]