Gray clouds abandon the turbulent sky
and fall to the earth, precious
drops descending, as if escaping
a grasping cosmic hand
wanting to hold life
to itself.
Brittlebush dances in the swirling wind,
waiting to be washed of the
dust and drought of the
desert, thirsting,
longing.
In a few hours the rain subsides
and the refreshed desert glistens in
sun rays breaking through
reluctant clouds, thrusting
light through jagged
opening in the
softening sky.
Dust settles. Mesquites breathe clean,
moist air. Desert flowers stand a little
taller, glow a little brighter. Ground
animals peak from deep burrows,
drawn by the smell of water.
All is as it should be.
As it should be.