Greetings from Nowhere
I am here alone in the desert. As I stand here nothing moves. The coolness of winter has left behind newly bloomed purple flowers and tiny blades of grass emerge from the sand. The mountains in the distance form a long rock curtain that is drawn low in all directions. Scrappy looking shrubs, thorny trees, dust, and rocks reside in endless repetition, punctuated only by large Saguaros that hold on to their last drop of water with upraised arms to fend off the birds that burrow holes that look like gunshots in their bellies.
Water in the desert is as transient as I am. It’s brief appearance is always violent and abrupt, quickly carving out a temporary river bed that almost instantly returns to dust.
In this moment in March, the available shades of green are sage, bluish green, a dark olive and a very light yellowish green. Although I suppose the sage and dark olive greens will persist through the hot summer months, I imagine the blue green will soon turn to purple, then brown, and finally fade to ash. I also envision the color being sucked from the yellowish green leaving behind a light grey fossil that will eventually blow away in the wind.
I, too, am in transition.
At dusk, the pink sky reflects against the blue rocks below creating a violet glow that is warm and cool simultaneously. I think the rocks are trying to remember in color the time when it was warm so they can make it through the cool of night.
And I watch the sky deepen further to darker shades of blue, letting go of all brightness as it fades away into the memory of the day before.
And the rocks and trees and all silent creatures of the night are thankful to the moon for illuminating their path. In the stillness, I awoke more times in the night than usual, wondering if the moon would ever give up. And then, to my surprise, the glow of the moon was replaced by a large orange flame that ran along the tops of the mountains, and the next morning had arrived.
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