who walks among the cranes and dirt,
her song in the air, like musk scent of riverbank.
Praise for the riverbank, larger or smaller
with the flow of the Rio Grande,
its winding waters drift between
the heart-shaped rustle of the leaves.
Praise for the trees with their holy trunks,
their branches bearing witness
to bird chatter, to porcupines, to La Llorona.
Praise for La Llorona, who lives in the bosque,
who appears when the trails of the land
are treated as parks, rather than temples.
Praise for the rain that soaks the forest floor,
leaves air open to the suction sound
of mud under feet. After the wind
retires its tantrum, all cried out,
its evidence splayed over earth, in our lungs,
seedlings burrow like animals
who seek comfort, like we all seek comfort
in this earth we try to hold onto. Praise.
