the waves sparkle as they clash
with the bolts of moonlight that slice
the darkness — the rolling of el río bravo
the pleasant skyline is mostly mesquite
limbs that seem to pierce the darkness
the deepest healings are the crashing waves
they come and go and go and come
waves that seem to aim not for wrath
with the moonlight and are their own
garden and will again rise in splendor
and retreat the same as they rose and each
shore unmapped — frontera’s beauty
let the spirit of this place be a lost soul again