“A drainage, a place where things come together,”
  that’s what Mr. Castenada said.
 Last spring I asked the ranger,
 a Jicarilla from up near Lindreth.
 He grinned, wide lipped, shook his head.
“I’m not good enough a Mexican,” he said,
 standing there, one foot on the barden bumper
 of the Forest Service truck, firm pot belly
 riding on a rodeo buckle, clean shirt, greenish
 levis, taking us in with the appraising
 squint of a law and order man
 up there
 near the beaver dam
 ten days before the start of fishing season.