garden there would not be enough earth in Chimayo to fillnthe hole.nBut she said nothing. Instead what struck her was hownbeautiful the stone was, cleaned by the rain of the bits of dirtnand gravel. Its shape was graceful, elegant. In the morningnsunlight it shone whitish pink, and the mica in it glitterednsilver.n”Sefior Montoya thinks it is necessary to use explosives,”nErnesto Saenz was saying. “We will dig around the rock andnprepare the terrain the way they do when they build anhighway through the mountains. Sefior Montoya has telephonednfor the required permissions.”n. “Yes, Senora Ruiz,” Sefior Montoya said. “We will boreninto the stone from the sides and sheath the explosives sonthat when they are detonated in the holes, the rock willnfragment.”nAleja watched the children running around the trenchnlaughing and shouting at one another. The men workednseveral minutes in the trench, then gave way to others. Thenwomen who had come had gathered on the hillside aboventhe garden where they were talking and passing aroundncoffee from thermoses.n”It will not take long now,” Ernesto said, smiling at Aleja.n”No, Senora,” Sefior Montoya said. “As soon as there isnword on the cellular telephone. . . .”nAleja Ruiz nodded. “Stop,” she said softly.nSeiior Montoya stopped in mid-sentence. ErnestonThe Morning You Came to the Hayfieldnby Brad OmansonnThe swath overturns and tumbles like surfnbefore the tines’ whiding — side-delivered,nfolded and fluffed in a windrow. The earthnis rolled in a humid warmth, it is steepednin a summer fragrance, but I am stirrednless by aroma of hay lightly heapednas by your appearance there at the farnedge of the hayfield, a shy visitor.nThe sky is curved limpid shell of blueneddied with breezes. This sun-cured harvest,nhoisted by fork to the high spacious loft,nwill last the winter. This image of you,nyour skirt in clover, your lineaments soft,nwill in half an hour blur and be lost.nstopped talking.n”Stop the men,” said Aleja Ruiz. •n”But we’ve just started,” Ernesto said.n”Please.”nErnesto set his thumb and forefinger at the corners of hisnmouth and whistled loudly. The men paused in their work.nThey leaned on their shovels. Raul Gadin squinted at her,nand the man Vago stopped talking. The children stoppednrunning and shouting.n”Thank you, Ernesto Saenz.”n”We have done nothing yet,” Ernesto said.nAleja Ruiz raised her hands and waved the people away.nShe did not say anything. She gestured in the air, andneveryone understood she meant for them to leave. One bynone the men picked up their shovels and climbed from thentrench. They moved away from the stone. Those who hadnnot yet reached the garden turned back up the hill. Thenwomen left the slope carrying their coffee cups andnthermoses. The children crept away quietly.nEven Sefior Montoya bowed and backed away, andnErnesto Saenz turned from where he was and began to walkntoward the path, following the others. The sun was warmnand arced higher above the brown water of the river madenfast by the night’s rain. On that fresh morning, as the snownmelted again from the mountains, Aleja Ruiz was left alonenwith the stone in her garden.n<^nnnNOVEMBER 1991/19n