Dust clinging to skin, shaken sand out of hair

Arid landscape swept over by a painter's brush of beaten blue

Yearlings sprint into the shadows, following a mother's lead

Sloping hills tumble on to the horizon


Grass reaches knees, gracefully swaying in the wind

Oil smells fill barren pastures with the fragrance of wealth

Native beliefs live on, traditions kept by time

Ever growing pride for an old Spanish church


Blue cloudless skies will forever remain cause for

Yearning for home and the rolling grassy plains




*Note: This poem is an acrostic.