You say they look like souls on a capitalist’s timeline,

I say they look like routine in a sea of cacti.

All of those hacienda-style houses along the highway.

Stucco without paint, arid conditions knee deep

in the American dream. Unfaltering along miles

of the Southwest. I think of the rest of the road trip,

how we stopped at a Hopi Indian stand,

fingering gems, rugs, hand painted mugs-

all from the earth. We discussed the theory of evolution

in the Red Rocks. How humans eventually created

an abundance of domesticated animals.

We brought our dog on the hike.

He teases me for my Catholic upbringing,

because instead of creating, I question everything.

He says, I believe in science. The evolution of man,

and woman, I interject.

He finds a sharp rock, it’s pointed at the tip,

he says for coyotes. I acknowledge his fear.

Eventually, the stars appeared,

we pointed to shapes known as gods.

Retelling their myths or stories created

from each glow so far away, like a best kept secret.

And we stood there, in the deep canyon

among the desert floral; agave palmeri,

prickly pear cactus, and desert ruellia.

Sara Schraufnagel is a poet from Minneapolis. Her work has appeared in Slipstream, New Plains Review, among others.