The terrible sun
Has mangled six mules
And salt is far away
One barrel left
Three trotting dogs
And the oxen are shaking their heads
 
So, hurry, using wheels and feet
To pass old boots or new stones
Before the rivers flood
Or the throats close with grief
 
Mouthing prayers
That all seem to know by rote
Trying to destroy the fear
With words written
In a row so long ago
 
Broken spokes
Iron discharge in the air
Pigs squeaking, running downhill
The horses snort
At last
 
The banjos played that night
When the field was finally found
Reflections of the miles
Were seen in every step
 
Good day