she dances for the crows
in the dust and cruel catheads
a tiny splash of yellow in the the brown
she has a game she plays
with a handful of sticks and a few stones
casting and running
sometimes a milk carton is a castle
or a line of ants her army
marching on the rustler in the west
and taking back her father's land

I have one of the last beers
in my sweaty hand
as I watch her out there in the yard
dancing for the crows
her hair is wild and tangled
and dust covers her in a thin veil
clouds at her knees
a world in her fingers
and her tiny feet
light and fleeting on the earth