tet to look up from the cow. “What's she got, anyhow?” the farmer asked, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, but never budging his shoulder from that two-byfour. “Badly infected hock and acute anemia,” the doctor said. He continued to put his stained instruments into his black bag. “Too bad, she’s a good milker.” We could do no more. We walked quickly to the station wagon and left. The next morning the phone rang again. The voice belonged to the farmer whose cow we had treated yesterday. “That cow’s dead! Couldn’t you do nothin’ fer her?” he raved. His bellowing voice startled anyone within twenty-five feet of the phone. “What'd ya think | called you for anyway!” Click! He had saved a seven dollar house call fee. SONNET MARGARET BLACK The Navajo moon cast crimson upon A winded hill and Ethon. Oranged sands Deepened into fire shadowed hogan And cracked into sun-mud as Ethon’s face. He walks bent toward the ground, but with long Steps, like the sage twisted into baked A LEAF mud. He bends too low to always follow wrong SUE SINGLETON Moon Gods and happy pow-wow, but sings with His dying stream that oozes and drips song Over parched rock. He pulls white sap from pine Bark to chew when he walks alone along A leaf slowly drifts down, Salted hills. The fire crackles pine boughs And he flips pine cones from the flame to age And wither under his Navajo lands on a quiet pool of water, and ripples the moon softly (24) (25) moon.