California Desert, January 2012

Dry, dead, desolate,
barren, brown mountains,
So unlike those lushly forested
blue beauties of my
home.

Rock after rock after rock.

A rubble pile,
the remnants of some
horrible explosion.
It must have been abandoned
after the tragedy,
the survivors heart broken,
too sick in their souls
to do the work of reclaiming it
one
more
time.

The ones too injured to
follow
grew spikes and needles,
fangs,
learned to spit poison,
suck just enough life from each to the other,
back and forth,
to get through
another
day.

At rare moments I see one
scurry like a shadow
on the side of the trail,
see the little holes they've
dug to shelter them
selves like graves
for the living.

The only softness in these hills,
repeated over and over again,
are mounds of sage brush,
velvety grey roses,
sprung from desert carcasses.
Such a bitter healer
that keeps us in this place.

Copyright © 2012 Lynn Thorsell, All rights reserved.