By Andrew R. Duckworth
In the yellow fields close to Santa Fe, New Mexico, there are dark shrubs that, from a distance, remind one of the buffalo that once made it their home, as if those yellow fields aren’t lonely enough. People were there once too. The further west one travels, the bigger the graveyards become—not ones where you prepare and pick your own headstone. It’s the hidden ones, forgotten, the ones we step on.
Poetry and Essays of Andrew Ryan Duckworth 