Powerline over sagebrush until I can see no more. I pull from the highway as the day-star makes his descent over the desert. An elongated figure meanders through the cottonwood trees, tailed by a calico shepherd dog. A raven braid cascades luminosity, falling toward tight hips. "You Indian?" The clay-skinned man bellows. The parched breeze blows broken earth between us. "Yeah, but from India. Are you? His outstretched fingers reveal a blood blossom like the desert roses in Rajasthan. "No, I'm Spanish." In that moment he is elevated from the ruins of the reservation. I am alone now. Moonstone is raising her cool face. Later, as the herding dog slumbers, I discover a child, dead among the sheltering trees. Near the water.