where three rivers join

by Grace Cain

Roll down tumbling hills, basins of dust and wind,

follow the never-ending stretch of road

and see what reaches far beyond our path.

These Tumble Weeds, a name so apropos

for the dry wicker balls they are, bounding

down highways, good days, bad days, some day soon

they’ll bowl into houses in the dry wild

and render the land back into their home.

The wind is our shepherd, leading great herds

across plains of sage and umber, rolling toward

mountains not yet grown. Unwieldy little

creatures, pests maybe, unmanageable,

getting stuck under fences, in alleys,

along the sand-blasted sides of bridges

line on line of great green yards with signs that

tell them to “KEEP OUT,” no one wants them there,

claiming the land for their own, disowning

the very thing that made this place what it is.

Yet this is our home, the Basin where wind

whistles over the tops of the hills and

basalt keeps track of the years in layer

after layer. Tumble Weeds, the shrub sheep

of the plains, grazing on the dust and the

dandelions, spots of bright yellow and

leafy emerald, amidst the russets and copper hues.

Little flock, tumble into my yard. Once

green yourselves, you have taken on the tones

of the desert. From the windows of cars,

down sidewalks, I don’t have far to look

to see your herds, to hear our guardian’s call—

only then do I know that I am home.