There are stories this land writes in stone, patterns
of wind on rock, water on sand. There's calligraphy in
a coyote's lope down the draw, a vulture's wings
spread against relentless blue.
In the near blackness of midnight,
wind roars down canyon like a flash flood,
blurring everything, raining sand onto upturned
faces, making the stars invisible.
A tumbleweed appears like a silent animal,
suddenly looming out of the darkness of
the creek bed and, just as quickly, gone.
All night, sand continues to scour the tent,
until the air is stilled by the dawn
under the watchful eyes of the last stars.
A canyon wren's song, like drops
of water, falls note by note from the cliff face.