The desert is a quiet land. Its rock, its sand speak in whispers of eternity sometimes to me.
I have stood between the wind and sun and felt some message passed from yuccas to the Joshua tree, but it was one that did not last longer than a sigh or did not die ...
Was it remembered mud, a flood of sudden flowers creeping after rain?
I listen but the drifting world keeps sifting over secrets. The desert is a quiet land; I seem to stand in the center of an endless thought someone has forgot.