It’s great to be a snowbird here in the Valley.You know, at first we meant to go back,once spring came, butit was so easy to grab an avocadojust reaching out the motel window
or pick sweet, ripe orangesfrom trees in the plaza;we couldn’t get over how theybore fruit and blossomed at the same time—they made our apple trees up northlook like pikers.
We got used to breakfasts of cubed papaya,coffee, and pineapple empanadasand I could see that my various knickknacksfrom trips across the Rio Grande,like this bright-pink and blue wooden cat,would look garish on the mantelback home. And I’d never have the nerve to wear my striped rebozo on the streetthe way I do here.
The long, iron face of the snowblowercame to me in nightmaresand the desperate whine of tires,like when you’re trying to gun your wayout of ice ruts in February.
So we bought this mobile home from some friends of ours who’d put down roots, bought themselves a little spread here,a hacienda; they weren’t going back eitherto storm windows and snow fence.
Doesn’t our door look festivewith this wreath of dried chiles?
