SUMMER SONGS The rain, of course, as it dings every leaf on the eucalyptus— what was it doing there, on the US- Mexico border, so far from its native lands? You might have asked your grandmother that question, she too so far from home, she too singing in her beloved Purépecha tongue— Mederush cancahuish nirash Inguia. Again, I’m going to sit and drink. Drink what? The rain. The sorrow of thirsting for sounds that take us back among our kind. Is this why she sat beneath that tree all day, sweating in the heat? To water the soil, to plead to the tulips— they too displaced—grow! grow! grow! Oh,
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