Our spot is across the red delicious orchard, down one granny smith and across two cherry plots until we get to the refuse pile. Looming warehouses, iceboxes full of fruit—their generators making the ground hum as we stay hidden amidst junk. We drag, flip and tilt broken fruit crates, each large enough for three girls to lay down in with legs curled, until we have a house. Our hoard of chipped plates and plastic cups scattered each week with weathered boards, pale at the break. We never pretend we're rich or moody fairies like we do in our green yards with their shady trees. Instead, we are Russians in the cold, we are gnomes far from home. Under the trash, high mountain desert scrub. We practice shelter, crouch in dirt and shrug on the aspect of things forgotten. We share and scavenge, noble in hardship. Running home for dinner in the early autumn light, we carefully skirt the migrant workers and their camps.