Mary Camarillo

Guitar strings reflecting
water rippling over rocks
in the green Kern River,

pedal steel weeping
like canyon winds
haunting scrub oak trees,

voice ringing absolute
as gospel bells, echoing
off deer-grassed hillsides,

 

secrets learned at some
devil’s crossroad, magic made
from ten thousand hours

 

of journeyman’s work.
The hairs on the backs
of our necks rise and testify.

 

We are changed.