El Horcajo

The hills like dusty waves –
and that’s an eagle, surely,
floating over El Horcajo.

A herd of black pigs
snuffle close to greet the car
along the bumpy track.

Dishevelled chickens
stalk the courtyard
stabbing at grains of corn.

Behind the wire-mesh window
a yellow digger dozes
in the evening sun.

Dusk, and a restless bird calls
in a foreign language.
On the edge of sleep

the sound of phantom cowbells.
In the small hours
thin dogs howl from hill

to distant hill:
discordant whale song
in this sea of soil.


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