The field is bare.
She peoples it for me
with long-dead ranchers
and children playing
in among the rocks.
She sees it inhabited
with invisible families.
Now only the wind whispers
over a fenced grave.
"Our little brother lies there.
See the fence is good still."
There are no other signs of homes.
The earth has sucked them
back into the ground.
The hills are luminous
with a hard and penetrating light.
No memory will cast a shadow
here when she is gone.

© Judith Yarrow, 1984