Presidio–Ojinaga International Bridge, February 1984 

I came from the southwest by bus
I came from Chihuahua in the winter cold,
I came to Ojinaga to look around
I carried a list of friends to find. I did not know them.
The list was from someone else I knew who tried to live here once.
I found no one on the list and headed for the bridge to Presidio.

The narrow lane between fences crosses the river.
On this side the river is called Rio Bravo.
Once across it becomes the Rio Grande.

On this border only cold winds or hot sun greet the crosser.
This is the rule here. Today it is cold winds.
In a few months it will be hot sun.
I stand for a moment in freedom
At the midpoint on the bridge.
I am in the neutral zone that the river is allowed to own.

The river below, which seems neither great nor brave,
Long ago wearied of such childishness.
It has its own life to live: a course it has to follow
With its own limits and secret places.

Strange, that without its consent,
This thin, ugly thread of brown water
Should be used to divide so many lives
And test them in ways capricious and unfair.

         C. S. Cholas, February 1984