Trudging

For the children of the border...

Trudging, they shuffle over dusty trails.
Los Espiritus emerging from shadows, parched.
Dry bones nervously clinking together,
Steps shortened by weariness worn through
The desert's hot day breezes, and cold night winds.

Trudging, they shuffle to the edge of home,
Stand trembling and gazing across the river
That is a river no more.
Los Espiritus grandes bend and kiss, saying, "Adios, mi corazon."
Large hands release small ones, point and then
Los ninos, vienen.

Author's Note

All suggestions and comments welcome.