At dusk, behind the Prince Palace Truck Stop,
an irrigation ditch gurgles between backyards
and the highway. 

My dog strains at his leash, snaps at small insects 
rising from the cottonwoods along the bank. 
Beyond the muddy water and a car up on blocks, 

tinny ranchera music drifts on the warm breeze. 
A few men drink and laugh, pitching horseshoes 
in a dusty lot. Women tend a smoky barbecue.

A young Hispanic girl in a white party dress
scrapes a stick along a cyclone fence. Suddenly,
a gust of wind whips up a cloud of dust and leaves.

The girl presses her up-fluttering dress to her knees.
One of the men shouts as he clangs in a ringer. 
Moments like that, you can love this country.