Borderland

I awake at the sound of my little son crying

In complaint of the morning chill

I cuddle him back to sleep

And step out to the backyard

A thin layer of frost coats the grass

I pluck a soft persimmon off the branch

And bite into the cold sweet flesh

The sky is blue and clear

Except for long strands

of white clouds

I decide to walk the two blocks

To the edge of town

There, a freshly plowed field

Stretches like a red border

Or churned battle field

That protects the last farms and ranches

Along the foothills

Of the Sierra Nevadas