The village sleeps while a few coyotes
prowl and scuff through the alley
that passes for a dusty street.
They own the night. We are
only tenants here at the edge
of the desert; close by the river.
A light is on at the bakery,
as it is every morning in the
long hours before the first glow.
The coyotes are used to it. They
watch her quietly pass by each
morning as regular as the dawn.
Sofia is immersed in the day's
work. Everything is in its place
and ready from the day before.
The old oven heats; the chill fades;
flour in her hair; her morning routine.
Lumps become loaves or anise biscochitos.
The first oven smells are drifting
down the street before sunrise.
She stops for a drink of her coffee.
She likes her coffee strong and sweet;
flavored with cinnamon or cardamom.
She indulges herself at this hour.
Working alone, she enjoys this time of day.
She has a place here in this little village;
like the mortar between the stones.
She recalls her mother, with flour
in her hair, greeting the men on their
way to the fields with fresh bread.
She is ready for the day as she hears
the first sounds from the street.
She smiles and steps out the door.
* * *
2018 - The Home Place