Waiting for the sprinklers to come on
Exiting on time or not some nights
Caught napping with the plants
Or straining to hear
The whispering stars
Above the electric insect blare
Of air conditioners and distant
Trains heading for snow country
Once we drove up to Third Mesa
To hear the stars from Hopi Land
One of the quietest places on earth
Lit only by scrub-wood fires
Like the ones that signaled
Troy was dead
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