Fourth of July at Santa Ynez

I Under the makeshift arbor of leaves a hot wind blowing smoke and laughter. Music out of the renegade west, too harsh and loud, many dark faces moved among the sweating whites. II Wandering apart from the others, I found an old Indian seated alone on a bench in the flickering shade. He was holding a dented bucket; three crayfish, lifting themselves from the muddy water, stirred and scraped against the greasy metal. III The old man stared from his wrinkled darkness across the celebration, unblinking, as one might see in the hooded sleep of turtles. A smile out of the ages of gold and carbon flashed upon his face and vanished, called away by the sound and the glare around him, by the lost voice of a child piercing that thronged solitude. IV The afternoon gathered distance and depth, divided in the shadows that broke and moved upon us . . . Slowly, too slowly, as if returned from a long and difficult journey, the old man lifted his bucket and walked away into the sunlit crowd. (1972-76)