Excerpt from Trail's End
We met four burros in the streets of Santa Fe one steel blue morning, When snow on the mountains crept lower down trails they were treading.
Two were gray, and two were brown to match the merchandise they marched with, Naked cedar split and frost rimed piled on gnarled brown pinyon wood, Bound round furry backs and ﬂanks in huge wooden horseshoes.
And the gray and brown small brothers of St. Francis plodded soberly, Turning corners of the long and crooked trail their fathers tracked from Burgos and Assisi, Trampling planks of tossing ships and foam swept beaches brown as e co, Treading where the padres tramped, on trails as brown as tattered robes that fluttered round them.
They went stacked with stuff for fire that ﬂamed far northward in strong sunlight.
The padres' skin burned brown through torrid summers; their burros' hair grew long and thicker through bleak winters.
And the flame that fired its human torches in Toledo, and leapt across the sea, harrassed them still and swept them with it.'
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