March 1885
Rock Springs, Wyoming
“No work today,” the foreman says
and sends him home without pay. Not wanting
to face his wife, he walks
to the hills, where birds
are starting to return. There he watches
a train slither into town. He spits on the ground.
Chinamen pour out of boxcars
and march in line toward the mines. He hurls
his tools at a pile of rocks
and stomps in the muddy snow.
“As long as they’re here, there’s nothing for us!”
A baby bird cries. He finds it tangled
in sagebrush and cradles it
on the long scar in his left palm.
“Come here, little one. Where did Mother go?”
