Trumpet flowers tocan una cancion,
like small mariachis heralding the morning.
Purple trajes blaze against the tan
vista, trumpeting buried living water.
Delicate leaves and wisps of branches shiver,
like when abuela stripped the vinyl table
of its ancient lace and stood on the porch, heirloom
in both hands, shaking loose the dust.
Back in the willow bush a bee throbs,
wings his own dance, buzzes his grito
to the play of purple trumpets; marking the score
for his community, the scales and arpeggios of their honey.
