I Corralled overnight, the herd of mustangs steamed under the moon, its whiteness a part of their motion and form, a sea of backs rolling in a landlocked harbor. Killdeer made noises in the mesquite, wind played with their throats, and hot blood sang beneath feathers. Wild in the stream, wild where mountain water parted the grass thick as hair, trout nuzzled grey rock for snails, muscle in horn; the delicate crunch underwater drove crayfish backward to lodge in low cracks under scree. A man in a bottle of kill-devil glowed like a firefly in water, suffused with the night and its lullaby sky, braiding some weeds for a lariat to bring down the moon. Wet smell of dung called back farmyards with calico girls crossing barefoot to stables, waking the hired hands to coffee and dawn cigarettes; he settled in sand, grinding his years into something to put his hands on, something to circle with himself, something to see, an irritation to lacquer over. Coyote wind. Beetle hum. Sidewinder scrawl. II Garden of beans and peppers for chili is open to sun all day. Clay soil and manure decay with a heat that trembles over tendrils and root hairs. Heat of the earth and heat of the sun come together, a regeneration. A scarecrow blows like a husk pegged to earth, cloth on a cross here to flutter man’s message to birds and whoever will listen: Thin to the sun, thin to the sandstorm, thin to the sudden black rain and the August hailstones, its threads open up and unravel their way back to dust. Under the stars for their counting, sunk in the earth for a labor to try and be whipped by, it is aged in a season too short. To have choice in the matter, to ring in descending or drop with a clunk, to shine like a broken-glass spark or be dully obscured, it comes without harbinger unless small things matter: an unfolding bud, the shape of a pebble, birdsong, a touch between woman and man. III In back of the shanty a whirlwind grows from the torque of the potter’s wheel; circles connect earth and sky. Taking heat from the woman’s fingers, clay winds upward into a bowl to carry lilies through winters ahead. Nearly sentient, it relies on her hands and her vision, pliant to each subtle convex of knuckle and concave of palm. Stick-ends of her hair scratch the bowl’s surface in vagaries of line, organic patterns. She will set it to bake like a lizard’s back on the sandstone outcropping she sees as a hand, and let it confront the sun overhead as circle to circle.