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White linens dry on the clothesline.
Among almond trees the gardener wearing
a red shirt waters each one. Their roots
gather moisture like settlers did gold in a

neighboring town now deserted. Lorca wrote
a play with that terrain in mind.
There is one house left. The roof has fallen.
The walls are holes.

Trucks pass in the distance where
a river once ran. Dust arteries behind them.
Everything parched. Grass is a tapestry of ocher.
Pines are losing green to brown.

They have found bones here. The oldest human
remains on this continent  a hippopotamus an elephant.
The mountain in the distance is jagged.
When it ruptured lava slid down arid edges.