There is a beauty to these woods

that surpasses even the twilight

sound of the Great Horned Owl

or the crescent moon spilling stars

onto cedar tops and pines.

“¡Más mezcla!, ”the masons cry and we mix sand, soil and cement.

Water dipped from drums pail by pail.

So many bricks. So much mortar.

Pail by pail we dry up a family’s only drinking, only washing.

“Toma la agua,”the mother says, risking all—“for my childrens”—to set a new foundation.

Tonight she will go to the stream,

pail by pail, starting again toward survival.

Tomorrow, “¡Más mezcla!,”and we will again risk with her

to build these children a home.