You didn’t mention the Pampas,
just bolas-instead of lassos-
and chasing the wild mustang
under the argent moon.
I pictured a brown-eyed tomboy,
jeans turned up to the knee;
running behind her elders
the undergrowth catching her feet.
Watching your face as you told me,
with a childhood memory’s smile
the soul of that faraway tomboy
peeped out from your glittering eyes.
