Night Driving

March

I-10 Burnt Well Rest Stop, Arizona

It was a delicate darkness that night,

made so by the aroma of the day’s rain

that flavored the air and settled in puddles.

At the rest stop, a chilly desert breeze 

brushed across our faces, momentarily flirtatious,

then continued twisting around the cacti,

flowing through mesquites and palo verdes 

until it finally located and swirled around

a patch of ground like a dog that walks 

in circles before lying down to fall asleep.

From: How We Wander:

Short Poems in 75 Words or Less

Unpub. MS p. 43

Blue Sky Brown Scrub

US Highway 93

Kingman, Arizona, to Hoover Dam

Like every other desert highway,

miles of drab brown,

low to the ground scrub,

living dormant under 

perfectly peaceful blue skies.

Something fearful dwells in deserts

so pervasive it weighs heavy in the heart.

It can be smelled in the creosote and sage, 

in the rocks and dirt like death’s warning.

It is stern and treacherous, 

yet a few invite themselves in,

daring to live an austere,

precarious existence.

It has cast a spell

on the few squatters 

dotting the landscape,

living in fragile travel trailers

or dwellings of found materials.

They couldn’t resist the lure

of the land’s breathtaking solitude,

the mad done in by rejection,

heretical outcasts hoping to silence 

the clamor of worldly things 

and their own inner turmoil.

Some may be irreparably broken.

Whatever is held dear,

it’s a seductive and formidable wilderness,

where anyone can get lost in its time and place.

From: Memories Of  Things Left Behind

Unpub. MS p. 38

Early Morning

Under this clear blue sky,

sitting on a towel in blue jeans 

and a red Tee on damp steps,

sipping coffee with the sunrise,

orange and yellow;

wisps of high clouds appear

as if from dreams of ideas,

barely thought out, 

stretching themselves fearlessly.

I’ve seen this many times before

while wandering Pacific shores, 

deserts, and from the forest’s edge, 

how they will blend together, 

shades of white on white, 

as on a painter’s pallet,

without effort,

without the heave of collision, 

creating again and again, coalescing

into something imaginative and new,

and all we have to do is wait and watch.

From: Small Places, Big Places, Everywhere 

Unpub. MS p. 7