a dark line marches
across the sand of the Sonora desert
almost black
it stands there dull and silent
in this stretch of baking earth
earlier at the boarder
just south of Campo’s dusty streets
nothing was visible over the wall
except the bright sky high above
it felt like the end
of the measured world
now west of Yuma
where expanse of sand
glowing in the midday heat
echos ancient Lake Cahuilla
truck tracks weave across the wash
why would any one be here
certainly not to tend the desert scorpions
or watch the plumes
stream off the crests of graceful dunes
certainly not to tend this long dark line
a line in the sand
where nothing moves
where the map of America stops
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And there continues to be creative attempts to get across the boarder. Sometimes they don’t work that well.
So Cal Yankee 