They danced this desert into existence.
They made love and gave birth to these rusted reds.
This morning a line cuts true across these rolling hills.
It cleaves the shadows backward,
This Mother sun’s embrace.
And even so, the moon is reluctant to set.
It watches over that hawk, almost-floating
in a n0-cloud sky.
And the warble-trill
is followed by an owl-hoot
and the rustling of a thin river, and tree-leaves.
Mother sun’s widening embrace
is so soon loving every sentry-like cactus,
thistle, thorn, red ant.
It is too much.
Like God’s love.
The salt from the sweat gathers at my temple.
Awesome, vast, and also somehow terrible.