As the desert absorbs the solar day,
the voices soothe my hidden grief.
From the Ironwood to the Agape,
I stand in utter disbelief.
 
The sun, wind, and rain form its aura,
always watching, as a parent with her young.
The thrasher searches through the land resembling gomorrah,
for a morsel of food, a gift for her tongue..
 
The rabbit rushes for cover,
as the panic overtakes him.
He might say, "human, speak and discover,
why you are here, more than a whim?"
 
Then I hear the clever coyote,
telling me, "fear not, I am only
passing through, call me don quixote,
I feel you are a bit too lonely.."
 
Just then, the lonely creosote interrupts,
"You there, try not to touch my bud,
notice the mistletoe that corrupts,
my own cancer of the blood.
 
As I journey through the immeasurable enigma,
I, once again, realize that I do play a part.
The desert life, akin to my own stigma,
treading along, my own slice of natures art.