what it feels like to return

shaky-voiced coyote howling in the day’s
pre-sun light
at the time of orange horizon flaring
against deep blue sky
how we laugh through/across language
baigz, trish, bessie and i
first, through a couple rounds of oldmaid
and then through the game of
drawing each other’s faces
while not looking at the paper
that we move our markers across
five orange slices packed in baggie
tucked into backpack
how the cells and their juice burst as i bite into
one by one on the meandering
sheepherding way home
like twins but not twins i say
as we make our way
across the scrublands
following hoofmarks
small rabbit (baby jack)
and gray beelining
who must have been there
for a while as i leaned into the edge
of the arroyo
what it feels like to return i say
when asked what i’m taking with me
and sheep poop is one of the things i say
i’m leaving behind
apple struessel cake baked on stovetop
in cast iron
sliced into gloriously large wedges
and plopped onto our plastic plates
you’ve done it again i tell trish
in her place next to me
at the table
baigz’s club beats and club dancing
with the sheep to get them
to move along while i
whoop whoop!
trish’s purple duct tape
slapped onto silver camera
to hold battery compartment closed


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